Ten Days

8 a.m

With his wife and daughters away for the weekend, Chief Inspector Billy Ridgerton, cadre-trained in public order critical incidents, had done a fellow officer a favour by agreeing to take his place on call.

Last time he’d volunteered, there’d been major and almost simultaneous ructions in four different locations. He couldn’t be that unlucky again. To reinforce this conviction he’d got up late — late for him, that is — and made himself a cup of instant coffee that he drank standing up.

The sun had yet to round the building, and for one glorious moment, as clouds swept across the sky, it looked as if the heatwave might be about to break. An illusion: the clouds soon dissolved, leaving a sky so blue it was clear they were in for another scorcher. He’d promised Angie he’d have a go at the unruly hedge that was strangely flourishing in the heat. Better start before it got too hot. But first he should check the available intel, just in case his services were going to be required.

There were the usual football fixtures, all of which looked to be, in policing terms, well under control. There were also a couple of fairs in London’s parks which, barring the spontaneous immolation of a bouncy castle, shouldn’t cause much trouble, and a vintage car race that might at worst lead to a bit of a traffic build-up. The only item of concern was the vigil that was due in Rockham.

Billy already knew of the death — an awful misfortune and one every copper dreaded — and he was familiar enough with Rockham to know that when things got hairy there, they really got hairy. Before he set to on the hedge, he decided to check if there were any issues by phoning the station and asking to speak to Rockham’s Commander, CS Gaby Wright.

‘She’s up north at a conference,’ he was told. ‘Policing for change or some such bollocks.’

‘Okay, so are there any issues?’

‘Issues?’ The sergeant sounded clueless: he must have been an acting, and a new one at that.

‘Any likelihood of things going pear-shaped?’ How much more clearly did Billy need to put it? ‘Any reason for me to get my kit? Come over? Lend a hand?’

‘Hold on a mo.’ Maybe he was a pretender rather than an acting, because he now covered the phone rather than putting Billy on hold, so that Billy could hear a muffled conversation, the bozo who’d answered consulting one of his colleagues and then at last coming back to say, ‘We’ve done a risk assessment and there’s no reason to be concerned.’

There was always a reason in Rockham, but it wasn’t Billy’s job to point this out. He’d asked and they’d answered, and they’d ring if things started to go wrong. Shoving his mobile into a pocket, he went to the shed to fetch the clippers and a spade — he needed also to pull out all those bastard shoots which were coming up through the dried-up lawn — and then he set to dealing with the hedge.

11 a.m.

‘Excellent choice.’ Peter made his way to the back of the garden to where Frances was sitting in the shade of the oak. ‘It’s far too stuffy inside.’ He leant over to kiss Frances. The dog, who had been lying under her chair, barked and would have nipped his leg had he not jumped smartly back. ‘What’s got into her?’

‘She’s hot like the rest of us.’ Frances laid the stack of Saturday papers she’d been leafing through onto the table. ‘How was Cabinet?’

‘Bloody.’ He sat down heavily in one of the wrought-iron chairs, nodding his thanks as Frances poured him a tumbler of iced tea. ‘Coventry wouldn’t be nearly far enough for them; they’d have sent me to Timbuktu if they could.’ He drank the tea in one and stretched out his glass for a refill. ‘The full Cabinet and not a single person as much as glanced my way. And when it was over, they evaporated faster than the clouds.’

‘I wouldn’t worry.’ Frances dropped ice from an ice bucket into his glass: ‘They’re only trying to figure out when to jump.’

‘Perhaps that’s it.’ He put his glass back on the table, and in doing so displaced one of the newspapers. ‘Oh. There’s my mobile. I wondered where it had got to.’ Despite the cooling effect of Frances’s iced tea, he was still desperately hot. He undid his laces and removed his shoes, checking that Patsy was out of biting distance before peeling off his socks. Such a relief. He stretched out his legs, feeling the dry grass prickle the soles of his feet. ‘The PM was off to the summit as soon as it was over. He made a point of saying that. Three times in fact. I guess he thinks that the sight of him grinning in a sea of world leaders will give him a boost.’

‘Too late for that. He’s already haemorrhaged too much support.’

‘I expect you’re right. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, though. At one point when he passed a note to the Foreign Secretary, his hands were visibly trembling.’

When Frances did not reply, he looked across at her. Her gaze, he saw, was focused on his feet, or more accurately on his white socks, yellowed by perspiration, that he had taken off. Although her face was partly shaded by the oak, he wondered whether that was distaste in her expression. But, no, he must have been mistaken. When she raised her head, her blue eyes were clear and calm, and she was smiling as she said, ‘The PM’s lost it.’

‘So it seems.’ Politics was such a cruel game. ‘And so quickly. I can’t help wondering why.’

‘Who knows. Maybe it’s his bitch of a wife’ — the two women never had much liked each other — ‘or his errant son. But it doesn’t matter why. The truth is that he is simply not up to the job. His spell in Number 10 has finished him.’

As it could finish me, he thought, and not for the first time.

‘Without someone new at the helm,’ Frances said, ‘the election is as good as lost.’

Right again. The PM knew it, the pollsters knew it, and the Party knew it. Most important of all, the hacks had started to say it out loud.

But it was one thing to accept that change was due and another to be the one to wield the knife. The PM, as ineffective as he was, was also liked by the Party; the person who deposed him could end up bearing the brunt of any backlash.

All very well for Frances to urge him on: she didn’t have to put up with the side glances when they thought you weren’t looking and, worse, vicious stage whispers they meant you to overhear. And what made her so sure he was going to win?

They’d been married so long she read his thoughts. ‘You won’t fail,’ she said. ‘They won’t let you. They can’t. You’re the only viable candidate.’

‘But people hate disloyalty. Now I’ve fired the starting gun, I could be trampled in the stampede.’

‘What people really hate, Peter, and here I am talking about MPs, is losing their seats.’ Her raised voice woke the dog, who looked up, accusingly, at Peter. ‘But this isn’t just about our MPs. It’s about the whole Party. It’s about the whole Country.’

The way she capitalised the Country — and made it sound right — made him think, as he often did, that she should have been the politician. She would have made a good enforcer: a fabulous whip.

‘If the opposition win the election,’ she was saying, ‘they’ll wreck everything you and the Party, and yes, let’s give him credit where it’s due, the PM, have worked so hard to achieve. Someone has to stop the rot. We can.’

He noted her use of the collective noun — another of her habits that could annoy. Yes, he’d be the first to admit that they were a team, and a good one. But he was Home Secretary and potential new Leader of her precious Country, and she was just his wife.

He was overcome, suddenly, by the most terrible fatigue.

It’s the humidity, he thought, which had climbed even higher since the episode of the phantom clouds. The air was now so thick he was almost tempted to try to grab hold of it and squeeze it out. Water, that’s what he craved. Not to drink but to immerse himself in. If only there had been a nearby stretch of water into which he could throw himself and for one glorious moment expunge the memory of the PM’s trembling hands and the prospect of the fight to come. He let the imaginary water wash over him, and soon it was almost as if he really was floating down a river in a different country where life moves at a slower pace, with the sound of the cicadas’ rubbing feet creating a reassuring background thrum…

‘Third time this morning; you’d better answer it.’

He snapped his eyes open. The sound he had taken for cicadas was his phone vibrating on the metal table. When he reached for it, he registered the caller’s name. ‘Yes?’

A reply so indistinct he had to strain to hear it.

‘This is a terrible line.’

Another soft sentence.

‘I still can’t hear you.’

Some more words, just as soft but also blurred, as if her mouth was latched on to her phone. He gave her a moment, straining to make sense of what she was saying, before cutting her short: ‘You’re still inaudible. Later.’ He hung up and tossed the phone onto the table. ‘Silly girl.’

‘What did she want?’

‘She’s looking into Yares’s connection to the PM. There’s something between the two, I am convinced of it. Patricia seems to think she’s found that something, but I could make neither head nor tail of what she was saying. Turns out she was in a pub surrounded by police officers. Doesn’t she know how leaky they are?’

‘She’s young.’ Frances’s tone was even and even disinterested. Must have got over her uncharacteristic fit of jealousy. ‘But at least she’s keen.’

‘Keen, yes. A little too much so at times.’ He yawned, stretched up his arms and yawned again. ‘The Cabinet took it out of me. And if you don’t mind, darling, I’ve still got some catching up to do before I can take a well-earned snooze.’ He got to his feet. He really was exhausted.

Such an effort even to make it to the house in this heat.

He was halfway there when she called him. ‘You forgot this.’

She was holding up his mobile.

He shook his head. ‘Don’t need it,’ and turned away. But almost immediately he turned back again. ‘Oh,’ a long sigh, ‘I guess I had better take it. There’s a meeting I have to go to later this afternoon; they said they’ll text me when they’ve fixed the venue.’

3 p.m.

A handful of Lovelace residents had gathered outside Ruben’s parents’ flat. Not enough people so far for the many posters Lyndall and her troupe had made. Cathy was holding a clump by their sticks, so as not to damage the photos of Ruben mounted on their tops, and hoping the demonstration wouldn’t stay this small.

Lyndall was a few feet away with more posters. Jayden was by her side. The two were chattering madly as they had been since early morning.

The last few days seemed to have brought them closer, Cathy thought, seeing how carefree Jayden, who usually wore a worried frown, looked. He had been dealt such a difficult hand yet show him the smallest kindness and he changed. The kind shopkeeper who kept him in work always said so, and there was more proof in the way that in Lyndall’s company he seemed to act like a normal kid. A pity that their friendship was unlikely to outlast the closing of the Lovelace. Not because they didn’t like each other — which they clearly did — but because their different financial circumstances meant they would end up living miles apart.

‘Here they are.’

Reverend Pius led the way out of the flat, closely followed by Ruben’s parents. As the two walked hand in hand, heads held high, nodding in acknowledgement of each member of the waiting group, Cathy was once more struck by their grace, especially when, coming abreast of Lyndall and Jayden, they stopped. No words were spoken, but Ruben’s mother reached out to touch each of the youngsters gently on the forehead: an acknowledgement and a blessing for the river of light they had created.

‘Shall we?’ Pius led the way down the gangway.

They followed, mostly in single file, tracing the route of the previous night’s candle path. Doors kept opening as they progressed down the different levels, more residents coming out to join them, so that by the time they reached ground level a handful had turned into a respectable bunch, with all the posters now held aloft, and when they came abreast of the community centre, they numbered, by Cathy’s reckoning, about sixty. And this was only the beginning. She needn’t have worried: more would join them once they were outside the police station.

The community centre was closed, as it had been since Ruben’s death. Police tape barred an entrance that was now banked by flowers. There were no police guarding the flowers, which, given the ill feeling towards the force, was probably wise. And there would have been no need: the flowers were untouched.

The crowd stood silent as Ruben’s parents stooped down to read the cards that people had left. They walked slowly along the line, picking up each in turn, giving them equal attention. That done, Ruben’s mother laid her own tribute — a single poppy — on top.

She stayed like that for a moment, her head bent, her hand resting on the poppy. ‘He loves red poppies,’ she said to the air.

‘Come.’ Pius helped her up and then, linking his arm to hers and to her husband’s, led the way out of the Lovelace and into a market that was already packing up. As the now sizeable crowd walked between the stalls, traders stood by: an honour guard paying tribute to a man who had once been their familiar.

4 p.m.

Peter came to with a start.

The room was dark, curtains drawn, and it took him a moment to work out where he was. Hearing movement in the bathroom, he realised that he must have dozed off. He felt the air wonderfully cool. How long had he been asleep?

‘How long have I been sleeping?’ he called.

The bathroom door opened, light framing the glorious vision of Patricia, whose skin, still wet from her shower, glistened a golden brown in the light. ‘Not long.’ She stretched up her arms and yawned.

She was so lovely. Desire rose up in him. Again. He patted the bed. ‘Come here.’

‘I’m wet.’

‘For me, I hope.’ Another pat. ‘Come on. Come here.’

She took her time, walking slowly towards the bed, smiling as he followed her every step. He was practically drooling when she slid in beside him.

If only, he thought. He laid a hand on her stomach and with the other pulled the sheet over her. ‘Come closer.’ He felt the brush of her breasts against his chest. He wanted her. So much. If only he could stop the clock and stay, here, in this room.

But… he lifted himself up, reaching for his watch.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ She wrenched the watch out of his grasp and threw it across the room.

He winced as it hit the wall. ‘Do you mind? That’s a Hublot.’

‘Should be strong enough to survive, then, shouldn’t it?’

He made to go and fetch it back, but before he could she straddled him, pinning him down by his hands, kneeling on all fours and grinning.

She’s so pretty, he thought, and so damn irreverent. At least in bed.

She lowered her head close enough for him to feel her hair brush against his neck. She whispered one word, ‘Stay,’ in his ear.

How he would have liked to stay. But one couldn’t run away from time, especially when it was blinking in neon green from the bedside table. ‘I can’t.’

When he thought he felt her stiffen, he prayed that she wasn’t going to make a fuss. But being with Frances, the mistress of the sudden freeze, had made him oversensitive. Instead of sinking into the sullen silence that was Frances’s intimate, Patricia laughed out loud. ‘Big talker.’ She kissed him, passionately, on the lips. ‘Until the next time.’ She shifted off him so he could get out of bed.

A shower to get rid, not of her but of the smell of her (so light and flowery, he thought, which he loved).

When he was with her and naked, his only thoughts were of her. Now, as the water flowed, what dominated was the memory of the lie he’d told his wife. Not something he was proud of. But her question had come so out of the blue he’d panicked, and once his denial had been released, it created its own momentum. To undo it now would be tricky.

Because her father had betrayed her mother in such an appallingly public manner, Frances was particularly touchy. She’d never understand that what he had with Patricia in no way affected his feelings for her. She was his wife, his counsel and the mother of his child: he wasn’t going to leave her. So why would he cause her pain for something that fulfilled a need but which was otherwise unimportant?

What was it that had even made her ask, he wondered. Had someone talked? It couldn’t be. If she had been sure of her facts, she would have pressed him harder.

‘Why are you taking so long?’

Patricia. He must go to her. He rubbed himself briskly with a towel. Despite his exertions, his sleep and a fairly hot shower, he was still feeling cool. A place that got the temperature right was a rarity; pity the need to protect himself from prying eyes meant that the next time they’d have to use a different hotel.

He came out of the bathroom to find her still in bed. She was lying on her back, sheet discarded, arms behind her head, stark naked and looking straight at him.

‘What a wanton child you are.’

‘Child?’ She wrinkled her nose.

‘Temptress, then.’ She was that as well, and irresistible. He went over to the bed and kissed her. ‘I wish I could stay.’

‘I know.’ The arms that had gone round his neck gave a quick squeeze before letting go.

He collected his clothes from the various points on the carpet where he had shed them. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll go first.’

She nodded.

Strange the transition between the intimacy of bed and the clothes that called up the outside world. Her eyes stayed fixed on him as he dressed. It made him feel a little awkward, so he averted his gaze until he had finished and was putting on his tie.

He looked around him. Something missing.

‘Your watch.’

He fetched it from the place where it had fallen onto the thick pile carpet. He held it to his ear. Foolish. It was a Hublot. He wasn’t ever going to hear it ticking. He strapped it on.

She was still watching him and it was still unnerving. Something he had done? ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘What for?’ Her tone was light.

‘The way I spoke to you when you called.’

She shrugged.

‘I was with my wife.’

He caught an involuntary narrowing of her hazel eyes. Understandable. If he put himself in her shoes, he could see it was difficult for her as well.

I’ll make it up to her, he thought. Buy her something. Fully dressed now, and conscious that his driver would be waiting in the lobby, he went over to the bed.

She smiled up at him.

Let the driver wait. He leant over to kiss her. Showing her, without words, how much he thought of her. He felt her melting in his arms.

How he wanted to stay.

‘They’ll be waiting for you downstairs,’ she said. ‘You’d better go.’

Such a sweet girl. And so considerate. He sighed and straightened up. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Did you really uncover something between the PM and Commissioner Yares or was that just your excuse for ringing?’

‘Both,’ she said. ‘Did you know that Yares is Teddy’s godfather?’

He nodded. ‘He has some long-standing connection to the PM’s wife — I think their parents may have known each other — which he declared in his application in tedious detail. The man’s such a stickler, he’s a bore.’ He pulled the knot of his tie tight. ‘Peculiar decision to choose a godfather who’s a Jew, but I suppose there’s less of the God about most of us these days, and that includes the PM. The public doesn’t seem to care. Anything else?’

‘I’m working on it.’ She had on her serious assistant’s expression. ‘I’ve got some leads. That’s what I was doing in that pub.’

‘You’re a marvel. Do your best, will you?’

‘Yes, Peter.’ She so rarely used his Christian name. ‘I’ll do my best.’

4.40 p.m.

The demonstrators had set up camp on the pavement opposite the police station and a few hundred yards down from it. The police had closed Rockham train station and the road leading to it, and diverted southward-bound traffic through a one-way system and away from the police station, which was therefore isolated and easier to guard with a small number of officers. Normally they would have set up this diversion at the large junction at Rockhill Park, but this time, for some reason that no one could understand, they let traffic pass the park, only afterwards diverting it via the smaller Blackrod Road. As a result, the High Street to the north of the police station was soon crammed with cars trying to U-turn their way back to the diversion. To deal with the logjam, a patrol car parked nearby to disgorge two uniformed officers who proceeded to direct the traffic back.

For their part, the demonstrators did as they always did: they spilt out into the road to stop traffic from the south passing by. The police’s answer to this — again as per usual — was to create a makeshift roadblock in the south so that the demonstrators now had full possession of the area a few hundred yards from the police station in what was a kind of informal, if unpoliced, kettle.

So far so routine. An hour and a half after they had first arrived, everything was still calm. The day continued ferociously hot. A whipround raised money for a stack of collective water, which they stored in a couple of polystyrene boxes packed with ice. An enterprising ice-cream seller parked near the southernmost perimeter of the demonstration, from which position he did a roaring trade. Ice creams passed amongst the crowd, some of it gifted good-naturedly to the officers who were working valiantly in that heat to turn away traffic from the northern boundary of the enclosure. With the sun beating down, it felt more like a summer party than a protest, especially when someone used a beach umbrella to create a shaded sanctuary for babies and those who could least tolerate the heat.

They stood chatting and holding up their placards, waiting to see whether anybody would come out and talk to them. At 3.30 p.m., when no officer appeared, Ruben’s parents, accompanied by the Reverend Pius, had made their way into the police station. Their intention was to ask the police for their version of what had happened, something that had not so far been shared with the parents.

When the three did not return, the assumption was that they were talking to the powers that be. And so the demonstrators waited for them to reappear, and as they waited, the demonstration grew.

And then at last: ‘There they are.’ Marcus, who stood shoulders above most people, was pointing over the heads of the crowd and towards the police station. The crowd turned, almost as one, to see Pius and Ruben’s parents coming out.

Marcus pushed his way to the front. ‘Doesn’t look good,’ he muttered to Cathy, who had also noticed the downward cast of Ruben’s mother’s head and the negative shaking of Pius’s. The three were in fact walking slowly, as if reluctant to rejoin the demonstration, or, Cathy suddenly realised, as if they wanted a conversation in private, something that must also have struck Marcus, who whispered, ‘Let’s meet them by the roadblock,’ in her ear.

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL FOR INQUIRY USE ONLY

Submission to the internal inquiry of the Metropolitan Police into Operation Bedrock

Submission 573/A/1: photographic evidence gathered by ASU 27AWZ between 16:43 and 16:51 on

location: the area immediately adjacent to Rockham police station

subject: demonstration

At 16:43 hours, Air Support Unit 27AWZ, call sign India 95, passed over Rockham High Street, where a crowd had gathered. On instructions from the rear police officer, the pilot circled the area while the police observer operated video camera facilities and recorded still images. The attached images, date and time stamped, were captured during the period of surveillance and selected at the request of the Chairman of the internal inquiry. The complete series of surveillance pictures are attached as an appendix.

Camera still 0578/19413

time stamp: 16:49:10

A crowd estimated at approximately one hundred stands two hundred yards to the south of Rockham police station. They have filled the pavement and spilt into the road. A young man, IC3, with long dreadlocks, who with others has climbed the wall behind the pavement, points in a northerly direction towards a police roadblock manned by two uniformed officers. A patrol car is visible, parked in a side street to the south of this roadblock.

Camera stills 0578/19414–9

time stamp: 16:49:15–16:50:55 inclusive

Just north of Rockham police station, officers direct southward-bound traffic, which had gone beyond the diversion, back towards Blackrod Road. A line of traffic has built up. Several vehicles are in the process of turning round, with the result that both sides of the north-leading road are blocked.

Camera still 0578/19421

time stamp: 16:51:10

Five adults, three IC3 males, one IC1 female and one IC3 female, stand on the verge by the northern roadblock. They appear to be locked in conversation.

4.51 p.m.

‘All this time?’ Despite her effort to appear calm, Cathy couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice.

‘For most of it,’ Pius said. ‘At first they asked us to wait outside, but when we pointed out that this would enrage the crowd they told us we could take a seat.’

‘“Pull up a pew, Reverend,” is what the policeman said’ — this from Ruben’s father — ‘As if this was some kind of a joke.’

‘We sat for gone an hour,’ Pius continued, ‘until at last a sergeant came out — not one any of us have met before. He said there was nothing more they could do because the matter was now in the hands of the IPCC. We asked them how we could contact the IPCC on a Saturday, and they said it was not their business.’

‘They were rude.’ Again from Ruben’s father. ‘They kill our son and then they are rude.’

‘We told them that wasn’t good enough,’ Pius said. ‘We asked to speak to Chief Superintendent Wright. They said she wasn’t there. So we asked for her second-in-command.’

‘He also wasn’t there.’

‘They told us they would request a visit to the family home by a senior officer, after consultation with the IPCC. We said we needed one now and here. We waited some more, and then a moment ago they came to tell us that they had just sent a car for a superintendent who is acting up as a chief superintendent. They reckoned it will take an hour to fetch him.’

‘But we’ve been here since three and it’s nearly five,’ Marcus said. ‘The crowd from the football will soon be coming down the High Street. Are they trying to provoke us?’

‘Truth is,’ Pius said, ‘and it pains me to say this — I don’t think they know what they’re doing. We told them we needed to be gone by dusk — that we had children with us — and that we didn’t want anything to go awry. All they would say was that they’d do their best.’

‘Rude. And they the ones killed our son.’ Ruben’s father’s raised voice attracted the attention of several members of the crowd.

Ruben’s mother went to stand in front of her husband. ‘Whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain.’ Although her voice was soft, she held him with a hard gaze. ‘Our son was never violent. We don’t want trouble.’

‘And we won’t have it.’ Stepping in between them, Pius put one arm around each of Ruben’s parents. ‘Come. Let us go and tell the others, and then we will wait, calmly and patiently, for an officer to be brought to us.’

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL FOR INQUIRY USE ONLY

Submission to the internal inquiry of the Metropolitan Police into Operation Bedrock

Submission 573/A/2: photographic evidence gathered by ASU 27AWZ, India 95, at 17:03 hours on

Camera still 0578/194139

time stamp: 17:03:07

location: 200 yards south of Rockham police station

subject: demonstration

A man, IC3, stands in front of the crowd, speaking into a bullhorn. Several members of the crowd have their hands up, perhaps remonstrating against what is being said.

Camera stills 0578/194140–19507 appended in annex/4 show build-up of numbers in the demonstration.

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL FOR INQUIRY USE ONLY

Submission to the internal inquiry of the Metropolitan Police into Operation Bedrock

Submission 573/A/3: photographic evidence gathered by ASU 27AWZ, call sign India 95, pertaining to the incident involving police vehicle IRV 02 PFD

location: Rockham High Street south of Rockham police station

subject: demonstration

Camera still 0578/19508

time stamp: 17:44:59

Incident Response Vehicle number 02 PFD, travels down Rockham High Street, heading north.

(Note to Inquiry. At 17:52:00 Air Support Unit 27AWZ radioed base to warn that the IRV appears to be heading straight towards the demonstration. Subsequent inquiry ascertained that IRV 02 PFD was responding to a report of a TWOC incident.)

Camera still 0578/19509

time stamp: 17:45:16

location: Rockham High Street south of Rockham police station

subject: demonstration

IRV number 02 PFD mounts the pavement to pass the roadblock.

5.45 p.m.

They heard the siren long before they saw the car. It was background noise that everybody assumed would fade. But instead the noise increased in intensity and duration until:

‘What the fuck?’

Someone on the southern edge of the crowd pointed to the police car that, unable to press forward because of the roadblock, had mounted the pavement and was heading straight for the demonstrators.

‘Stop.’

The car kept coming.

‘Stop.’

The car blasted out a series of warning siren bursts as if expecting that the people in its path could somehow disappear. A child’s buggy, complete with screaming infant, was carried overhead to safety as others scrambled out of the way.

The pressure of people still around the car had forced it to slow down, but it did not stop even when one of the policemen from the northern end of the roadblock starting running towards it. A demonstrator, who had been standing outside the fruit and veg shop, picked up a tomato and threw it at the patrol car. ‘Stop. You’re going to hurt somebody.’

The tomato struck the windscreen and burst, as the cry ‘Stop!’ was taken up by many voices. And still the car kept going.

‘Stop!’ People closest to the shop reached into boxes that lined the pavement, grabbing anything to hand, so that tomatoes and carrots and purple plums and avocados went flying through the air, some of them landing on the car and others splattering in the road. And then at last, the car, its driver possibly having spotted his fellow officer running towards him, applied his brakes so that by the time the policeman had arrived and banged on a side window, the car had come to a complete halt. The driver’s side window slid down allowing the out-of-breath policeman to speak, briefly, to his fellows inside.

The window closed. The policeman stepped away. The car got moving again, backing up the way it had come, and although it clipped the side of the ice-cream van as it went, it did not stop but instead, siren wailing, reversed down the pavement until it could turn and speed away.

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL FOR INQUIRY USE ONLY

Submission to the internal inquiry of the Metropolitan Police into Operation Bedrock

Submission 573/A/4: further photographic evidence gathered by Air Support Unit 27AWZ, call sign India 95, pertaining to the incident involving IRV 02 PFD

Camera stills 0578/19510

time stamp: 17:48:31

location: perimeter of southern roadblock

subject: collision

IRV 02 PFD clips the front side driver’s bumper of a parked van.

Camera stills 0578/19511

time stamp: 17:49:56

location: perimeter of southern roadblock

subject: collision

IRV 02 PFD reversing away as the van driver steps out.

Submission 573/A/5: photographic evidence gathered by Air Support Unit 27AWZ, call sign India 95, between 18:29 and 18:46 hours on , pertaining to the appearance of Chief Inspector Raj Privadi

Camera still 0578/19536

time stamp: 18:29:33

location: 200 yards south of Rockham police station

subject: arrival of senior officer

Newly arrived police vehicle IRV 01 HDR is stopped by northern roadblock. A uniformed police officer who has come out of the car is walking through the block towards the demonstration. The crowd is now estimated at approximately one hundred and fifty persons.

Camera stills 0578/19537–41

time stamp: 18:30:51–18:40:12

location: 200 yards south of Rockham police station

subject: communication between senior officer and representatives of the demonstrators

Officer attempts to address the demonstrators but appears to be rebuffed. Officer walks back behind the roadblock and into Rockham police station.

Submission 573/A/6: photographic evidence gathered by Air Support Unit 27AWZ, call sign India 95, between 18:40 and 18:46 hours on pertaining to the appearance of the bus ARL VLW 96 on the scene

Camera still 0578/19627

time stamp: 18:40:03

location: northerly roadblock

subject: movement of traffic

Bus ARL VLW 96 stationary at the northern roadblock. The driver is out of his cab and talking to one of the police officers whose hand is in the air and twisted to one side as if describing to the driver the process by which he can turn round in the road. Beyond the roadblock the line of traffic is blocking the bus’s exit.

Camera still 0578/19628

time stamp: 18:45:12

location: northerly roadblock

subject: movement of traffic

In trying to turn, the bus has mounted the pavement and is facing a wall. Passengers disgorge from the stationary bus while those who have already descended are being ushered through the roadblock. Several of them have turned towards the crowd.

Note: This is the last of the series. At 18:46:15 27AWZ returned to base to refuel.

8.15 p.m.

They had been waiting for almost five hours, and they were still waiting. And as they waited, the demonstration had grown.

Half an hour previously, a patrol car, blues and twos flashing, had stopped by the southern roadblock to disgorge a chief inspector. Here, it appeared, was the promised senior officer. But he only had to show his face and he was met by derision. ‘They’re using you for your black face,’ someone shouted, while someone else demanded to know why the policeman would do the white man’s dirty work, and soon the cry ‘House nigger! House nigger!’ drove him into the police station.

And still they stood and still they waited.

As the sun dipped it also dazzled, turning the northern sky yellow. The day’s last hurrah and the crowd grew. Threads of pinks and oranges began to trail through the sky and intensified as the sun slipped down. By 8.20, the police station was washed in crimson.

Such a glorious sight and yet it felt menacing, reminding Cathy of the recent sunrise and the foreboding which had then possessed her. That was the day that Ruben had been killed. And now?

She looked around her, registering how the crowd had changed. Whereas most of the early demonstrators had been Lovelace residents or members of Ruben’s extended family, the new arrivals were not so easily recognisable. They were younger and more energetic and, she thought, and hoped she was mistaken in this, spoiling for a fight.

‘They are not going to send anybody to speak to us,’ Ruben’s mother said. ‘There is nothing to be gained by staying.’

Pius and Marcus agreed. They had made their point. They must now regroup.

‘Let’s see the family safe indoors,’ Pius said.

It had been a while since Lyndall had been around. ‘You go ahead,’ Cathy said. ‘I need to find Lyndall.’

The crowd was much more densely packed; she looked this way and that.

‘Would you like us to wait for you?’

She took in the exhaustion on Ruben’s mother’s face and the anger on his father’s. ‘No. Don’t wait.’

She’d find Lyndall and then they’d both get out of there.

She started at the southern border of the enclosure. No Lyndall, nor Jayden either, just curious people heading down the High Street to check out what was going on. More of them were coming: the whole area would soon be densely packed.

A drum began to beat.

The sound seemed to pass right through her, intensifying her awareness of her thumping heart. The fear that she had tried to tell herself was only her imagination reared up, and once it came it would not go. She felt it hammering at her throat, taking away her breath as she walked. Faster and faster she went until she was almost running.

She called out ‘Lyndall?’ as she darted in and out of the knots of people who had gathered together: ‘Lyndall?’

She pushed on, heading for the northern roadblock: ‘Lyndall?’ Lyndall would never hear her mobile in this crowd. ‘Lyndall?’

Someone she passed heard her cry and took it up: ‘Lyndall!’ Others joined in so that soon the air was vibrating with the calling of her daughter’s name: ‘Lyndall! Lyndall! Lyndall!’ the drum now also pounding out the syllables: ‘Lyn-dall! Lyn-dall! Lyn-dall!’

She told herself that she had felt like this before when Lyndall had been late. Nothing had happened then. Nothing was going to happen now.

‘Lyn-dall! Lyn-dall! Lyn-dall!’

Someone grasped hold of her. She turned to face them.

‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Lyndall was so red with mortification that her face almost matched the colour of the setting sun. ‘I was here. I’ve been here all the time. You’re such a panicker.’

‘Come on. We’re off.’

‘I’m not going. It’s fine. He’ll look after me.’ She indicated the man beside her.

So caught up had Cathy been in the relief of finding Lyndall, she hadn’t noticed Banji there. Although perhaps she hadn’t noticed him because he looked nothing like himself. The distress she had seen in him that previous day seemed now to have pulled down his brow and pinched in his face. The irises of his eyes that were yesterday pink had darkened to a bloodshot red; below them the skin had blackened with fatigue.

She had seen how upset he was and yet had failed to seek him out. Cruel of her. She reached out to touch him.

Without even looking at her, he shifted out of reach. His focus was on the northern roadblock. ‘Where did they go?’

They? She looked to the point where the two policeman had been turning the traffic back and saw that, although the patrol car was still in the side street and beside it the abandoned bus, the two officers had vanished.

‘Maybe they’ve gone to move the roadblock back.’

It was as if she wasn’t there.

‘There’s enough of them.’ He was talking to himself.

She looked again, this time beyond the roadblock. She saw that where there had recently been three officers in the vicinity of the police station there were now at least twenty. No casual collection this: they were standing in lines as still as sentries.

‘Has someone turned them to stone?’ Lyndall’s joke foundered under the uneasy crack of her voice.

‘It’s going to kick off,’ Banji said. ‘They’ll make sure of that.’

She wasn’t sure whether the ‘they’ he was referring to was the police or the group of young men who had also sidled into view. They were not luxuriating in the warm evening; they were moving with a serious intention that soon displayed itself. They went over to the unguarded panda car, stopping within ten yards of it.

‘They’ll do something.’ Banji was now clearly talking about the police. ‘Even if they don’t have the right protective kit. They have to do something.’

The battering ram of young men seemed to agree. They looked expectantly at the police lines.

The police in the lines looked back. And did not move.

Later, when Cathy thought about how it had begun, it came to her as a series of freeze frames.

First off a fluid moment: one of the youths separated himself from his group and strolled over to the shop whose boxes were still laid out on the pavement. He picked up a box, returned to his starting point, put down the box, took out a cabbage, backed off a few yards and then began to run.

Freeze frame: the man in full stride, his arm stretched back behind him.

The cabbage arcs up on a high trajectory towards the car.

The cabbage hits the front windscreen, which cracks.

Those two sides — the group of youths and the police — face each other.

Freeze frame.

And then double time.

The box of cabbages became a focal point, a stopping place for grabbing arms that reached in, withdrew and threw, until the air was thick with flying cabbages. They hit the car and dented it as, attracted by the noise, more members of the crowd started running towards the commotion.

The police did not react.

The first of the group were already advancing on the dented car. Someone tried to pull open a front door. When that didn’t work, someone else placed his elbow against the cracked glass on the driver’s side and jerked it back. The glass caved in. He inserted his hand through the gap, pulled up the lock and opened the door. Someone pushed him aside and dived into the car, soon to re-emerge, triumphantly, with a trophy. A CS canister. The sight produced a long drawn-out cheer.

And still the police did not move.

We should go, Cathy thought, but somehow couldn’t tear herself away.

More of the youths were in the car, ripping it to pieces. One of their number must have released the handbrake. A shout went up: ‘Roll it.’ The men in the car scrambled out as a handful of other youths got behind it and, at the shout of ‘One, two, three, push’, pushed. The car edged forward.

‘One, two, three push.’

This time, before the ‘push’, Cathy was certain that she saw the young men stop and look at the police line, as if, she was later to decide, daring the police to react.

The police did not react.

‘One, two, three…’ There must have been a slope in the road because this time on the third ‘push’ the car rolled forward and did not stop until it hit the kerb. It mounted the kerb before slipping back. It was now directly in front of the vegetable shop.

A man, the owner, came out of his shop, his hands up as if to wave the car away. He shouted ‘Help!’ at the watching lines of police. ‘Come help me.’

No reaction.

As the youths lined themselves up behind the car, readying themselves for a last push, the shopkeeper and his sons, who had also dashed out, planted themselves at the car’s front end. They laid their hands on the battered bonnet and pushed. The car seesawed backwards and forwards for a moment in a contest that the shopkeeper was bound to lose save that several of the youths pushing at its rear voluntarily gave up, while a couple of the others were physically wrenched away by Banji.

‘One, two, three push.’ The people at the car’s front end were now in the majority, and the car rolled backwards, coming to a halt in the middle of the road.

Such an odd sight. A battered patrol car, isolated as a row of police just looked on. It was a trophy that the crowd began to circle. Round and round they went, banging hands against open mouths and whooping.

A voice yelling in Cathy’s ear: ‘They’re going to torch it.’ Lyndall’s voice. ‘Hurry up, Mum. We have to leave.’

Hand in hand they began to run, pushing against a tide of excited incomers. A ‘whoosh’. They stopped and turned. Just in time to see a thin jet of fire flare from the open petrol cap of the police car. And then, as the people around it stepped away, the car exploded.

A collective howl, exultation and rage mixed, rose up into the night and although some of the crowd now retreated from the burning car they were soon replaced by others who, drawn to the blaze, joined the whooping dance around the flames, while a small subgroup split off from this crowd to run over to the bus and around it until they had disappeared from sight.

The bus began to rock, imperceptibly at first, so that Cathy thought she might be imagining the movement, but then she realised that they were pushing it from the side, forwards and back, slowly at first but then gathering speed, a huge red pendulum whose main arc was forwards and towards the street, until, one more heave, and the bus tipped over. Spotlit by the burning car, it arced down, gathering speed as it neared the ground, and then it was down, splinters of broken glass flying out, to the sound of cheers and breaking metal, the bulk of the crowd racing for it.

‘Come on. Quick. Let’s get out of here before they set the bus on fire.’

8.25 p.m.

The untidiness of the hedge was history. Or at least it would be once Billy had bagged up the last of the cuttings.

It had taken longer than he’d expected. Hours in fact, although he had had a break to watch the match and the post-match commentary, which he’d bookended with an extended snooze.

A rare treat to spend a Saturday without demands and he’d milked it — not that he didn’t miss the girls but they’d be back, at which point Angie would be over the moon about his good work.

Just one more bag to fill and then, he thought, a pizza and a low-alcohol beer. Perhaps two. He’d earned them. As he began to sweep along the pavement, he felt his phone buzz. He pulled it out and clicked it on: ‘Yup?’

‘Billy? It’s Mike.’

Mike was not part of that weekend’s command complex, so this must be a social call. Billy felt himself relax. ‘What’s up?’

‘A bus on fire in Rockham.’

‘Oh yeah? Course there is. Pull the other one.’

‘This isn’t a wind-up,’ Mike said. ‘I’m on the ground. The station’s under siege and there’s hardly any Level 2 here. They’re going through the call list — you’ll be hearing from them soon — but I thought I’d give you a heads-up so you can organise your kit.’

Without thinking about it, Billy had straightened up, and when he asked, ‘How bad?’ he sounded extremely calm.

‘Really bad. And it’s only going to get worse.’

9.15 p.m.

Jayden had dreamt this same dream, and on more than one occasion. He and Lyndall walking down an unfamiliar street. Him reaching out for her, like she (he was never in any doubt about this in the dream) wanted him to do. But as their fingers touched, a hot wind, no, not a wind, a tornado ripped them from each other, and he was sucked up into the twisting centre, powerless as she seemed to shrink, or else he was being blown further and further away from her — he couldn’t tell which it was. He only knew that he could no longer make her face out in a gathered crowd.

And now he found himself living this dream even though the street they were on was Rockham’s main thoroughfare and they had been torn asunder not by a wind but by the force of the rampaging crowd. Her hand reached out for his, but he was jammed so tight that he had been lifted off the ground, with the thrust of the group carrying him away from her.

He saw her mouth open. He knew she must be calling to him, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying, and soon he couldn’t see her either. He struggled to free himself and eventually managed to tunnel his way out of this cyclone of people, many more of whom were heading in the opposite direction. He lowered his head and barrelled against this oncoming tide, back to the place where they’d been parted. But she was long gone.

He thought he heard her name, not once but many times. He scanned the crowd as that implausible cry ‘Lyn-dall, Lyn-dall’, which his imagination must have summoned up, mocked him. He tried to jump up, the better to see where she might have gone, but that set the people around him jumping, the action spreading through the crowd so that all he could now see was a myriad of bobbing heads. He felt a terrible sense of failure: he had not kept her safe.

A bang, and the tide turned, and he with it, all of them running at the noise that was the bursting into flames of a squad car. Then he saw Lyndall, lit up by the flash of the explosion. She was safe. With her mother at her side.

He could have reached them, he should have, but something, perhaps the way they stood, so close to each other, held him back.

She was safe. That’s all that mattered. He saw them turning away. Like he should too. Get back to his own mother.

The fire around the police car had helped clear the path, especially now that some of the crowd were making for the bus. He could easily have gone and caught up with Lyndall. And yet knowing she was safe had released him.

To what?

To be here. In this moment. With all these people. Some of whom he knew. Some of whom he didn’t. All of them flushed by the heat, and the fires, and not knowing what was going to come next, and, yes, now he felt it flooding through him he could name it for himself: exhilaration.

His life upturned. His early rises to open and clean the shop and buy the breakfast and bring it back and leave it for his mother who, despite how hard he shook her, never would get up. And then the trudge to school, and he always on the late register, and those mouths that spoke at him words he was too tired to take much notice of, detentions handed out which he had to miss because it was time to get back to work again.

All those people — his teachers, his boss, the social workers. These people who were always telling him who he was and what he had to do. They were nowhere here. Fuck them. Fuck their rules. Fuck their prohibitions. The things they told him he couldn’t do. The things they told him he couldn’t have.

They were nowhere here. Those people who always told him what he was allowed.

The police, yes, he could see them, were there, but they just stood and looked. And here he was with all the others. He could do what they were doing, he could pick up a brick, look there was one, he felt its rough edges in his hand, and he could surge on and into one of the broken shops.

‘Let’s get ‘em’ — that chorus rising and he joining it — ‘Let’s get ‘em’, and he didn’t care who it was they were going to get, he just wanted to act, to be carried along by the crowd and to do what they were going to do. And already there was the sound of breaking glass, and shadows were flitting in and out of shops that had been blasted open, and people coming out, not just the young and not just men but all kinds of people, holding things they’d grabbed, and he too, all he had to do was move with the tide and he could have some of what they were having, things he’d only ever dreamt of owning: trainers, not the old sad ones he wore, but the ones other kids flaunted, the confident boys who stood out. He didn’t even have to break in or anything — he let drop the brick he was holding — it was already done. All he had to do was follow. And now, before it all disappeared.

‘Come on.’ He was talking to himself and to the night: ‘Come on,’ urging himself forwards, laughing even, oh how much he wanted to do something, anything, without first having to think of the consequences. To be in the now, like he never was.

Because. He stopped. The crowd surging past.

Because.

If he got caught.

If he didn’t make it home.

If he wasn’t there to buy the breakfast.

If he didn’t put it on the table.

If all those ifs came to pass.

She wouldn’t manage. Not if he wasn’t there.

‘Come on.’ They were calling to each other, and they were still coming on.

All of them but him.

He dropped his head and turned away.

9.55 p.m.

The table was groaning with Frances’s splendid food and lit by candles to soften the velvet night. Around the table were close friends, all of whom were supportive of his leadership bid. Not that it had even been broached: they knew, without Peter having to say as much, that what he needed more than anything was a break from the relentless pressure. So they gave it to him, following his lead in keeping the conversation light.

Oh, the joy of relaxing with people who understood and who, even more importantly, were not going to sell his every unguarded word to the tabloids.

He kept their glasses topped up with a particularly subtle Gigondas rosé, which had gone down very nicely. If the heatwave continued, which the weathermen were now saying was a distinct possibility, he would have to organise another couple of cases. He reached for the bottle.

‘Here, let me.’ Frances’s hand covered his before slipping under it to take the bottle. She got to her feet and began doing the rounds of the table, and by the time she’d reached him, the bottle was empty. He twisted round: there were two upturned empties in the ice bucket and that was it.

He made to rise, but Frances now laid her hands on his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, darling, I’ll fetch more.’ For a moment she stayed where she was and, although it was hot, he felt his tight shoulders relaxing under the pressure of her kneading fingers. He let out a long sigh of contentment.

‘Me next’ — this from one of their guests.

Frances laughed, removed her hands and, having guaranteed ‘I’ll be back’, made her way through the garden and to the kitchen.

‘A marvellous woman. You lucky man.’

A chorus of agreement circled the table while Peter thought about his luck. He reached for his glass and drained it of its last few drops. More soon to come.

Not, however, that soon. The conversation moved through the greatest gaffes ever committed in public, and then, raucously, in private, and still Frances did not return. There were bottles in the wine fridge: he knew because he’d put them there. He turned to look through the darkness and towards the house.

The kitchen was lit up, so he could see her clearly. She was standing with her back to him. She wasn’t moving — not bringing out dessert, then — and she wasn’t anywhere near the wine fridge. What on earth? He was about to go and check on her, but when she turned to look his way he saw that there was a simple enough explanation for her immobility: she was on the phone. He could see her nodding as she held it to her ear. Someone must have phoned, although he hadn’t heard the ringing, which, given they’d rigged up an amplification system, was odd.

She seemed to be staring straight at him, although since she was in the light and he in the dark he knew that she wouldn’t be able to see him. Perhaps she was just glaring in that way of hers in order to transmit to whoever was on the other end that they needed to stop talking and hang up. Which is exactly what happened. Her hand moved the phone down to the counter.

She’d be back soon. He turned to their guests. And heard her calling. ‘Peter.’ She’d stepped out of the kitchen, phone in hand. ‘You had better take this.’

He glanced at his watch. Nearly ten. It must be important or Frances would have given the caller short shrift. He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Duty calls.’ He took a step forward, only to trip over the blasted dog, who was always underfoot.

‘Steady.’ As the dog yelped, one of the guests reached out a hand to stop Peter falling. ‘Better have some coffee, old boy.’

To prove that he wasn’t really drunk, he walked in a deliberate straight line to the kitchen, where Frances stood, phone still in hand. ‘It’s the Commissioner,’ she said. ‘Something about Rockham.’

‘Covering his arse, I bet.’ Peter reached for the phone.

But Frances kept hold of it for a moment. ‘If it’s serious, take it seriously. With the PM at the summit, this is your chance. The Party already knows what you’re capable of; if you play this right, you can also show the Country.’

‘Indeed.’ He took the phone from her. ‘Home Secretary here,’ sitting down as he listened to what Joshua Yares had to say. In the background, Frances busied herself making coffee.

11 p.m.

The Lovelace rang out with shouts and the pounding of feet, people running either towards or away from the trouble.

‘Jayden’s not back.’ As Lyndall turned away from the balcony’s edge, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Something must have happened. I’ve got to go and get him.’

‘I’m sorry, darling, I can’t let you.’

‘You know what Jayden’s like: he always wants to please. They’ll make him do things and they won’t keep him safe. Please — I have to find him.’

‘You’re a mixed-race kid in what is effectively a race riot. If the police pick you up — and in that circumstance they’ll go for anybody they can get — you’ll be in trouble.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Well, I do.’

Lyndall bunched her fist and hissed out one word — ‘Hypocrite’ — through tight lips.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You must have lectured me a million times on how we are only strong if we band together. And now, when one of the vulnerable that you’re always on about is in trouble, all that matters to you is that your daughter is safe.’

It was a speech delivered on such a stream of righteous indignation that it almost made Cathy laugh. Except this was no laughing matter. ‘You’re my daughter and you’re only fourteen. It’s my job to keep you safe.’

‘And Jayden is my friend. It’s my job to keep him safe.’

‘I’m sorry, but the answer is still no.’ Cathy held up a hand to stop a fresh onslaught: ‘How about if I went?’

‘He doesn’t trust you like he trusts me.’

‘That’s as may be but, bottom line, I don’t care how many times you ask me, I will not let you out in it. But I can go. If you’d like me to?’

Lyndall gave an almost imperceptible nod.

‘Okay, but only if you promise to stay put.’

Another, slightly more emphatic, nod.

‘You also need to promise that you will not come looking for either of us. Do you promise that?’

And a third.

‘I want to hear you say it.’

‘Yes, Mum, I promise.’ Such a small voice — it told Cathy that, despite her bravado, Lyndall might be relieved not to have to head back out onto the streets. Hardly surprising. It had been scary enough when they pushed their way out of the melee; it was bound to be even scarier now.

‘Okay. I’ll go and see if I can find him. Meanwhile, you need to get inside and stay inside. Any trouble, any at all, even if you think it may just be your imagination, ring me. If I don’t answer — it’ll probably be too noisy for me to hear my mobile — ring Pius. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mum. I understand. And,’ when Lyndall kissed her on the cheek, Cathy realised that her daughter was almost as tall as her, ‘thanks, Mum. Please be careful.’ She went into the flat and closed the door.

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL FOR INQUIRY USE ONLY

Submission to the internal inquiry of the Metropolitan Police into Operation Bedrock

Submission 601/b/1: written submission by Chief Inspector William (Billy) Ridgerton

I was the cadre trained in public order critical incidence on call on the weekend of the Rockham disturbances.

I arrived at the scene at 2235 hours. There were two cordons, one with unprotected police officers and no disorder whatsoever to the south. To the north was a large barricade with members of the public throwing missiles, including petrol bombs. The crowd numbered in the region of three hundred, with a nucleus of the crowd causing problems and a high proportion of onlookers.

I located a chief inspector based in Rockham who filled me in as to the outbreak of the disturbances. I then contacted Silver in Littleworth and informed them that I was faced with three immediate tasks: protection and security of the station; the creation of a reactionary gap in which my officers could work to alleviate the pressure to the north and, if possible, arrest troublemakers; and the creation of a sterile corridor for the LFB and LAS to advance, since by this point fires were being set.

We were light on resources, especially protected officers. Initially I had at my command a coterie of TSG officers and some Level 2 trained officers seconded for aid. I had urgent need of more shield-trained officers and I informed Silver of this. I also informed Silver that I had two to three PSUs who had been in the front line for three hours and who needed to be relieved.

By 2300 hours, having taken stock of the situation, I and my men pushed forwards.

11.05 p.m.

They had set up Gold Command on the fourth floor.

A line of seated officers was monitoring the bank of screens, their computers providing the sound, as they communicated with Silver in Littleworth and Bronze on the ground. In the middle of the room there was a projected map of Rockham complete with the position of rioters, onlookers and emergency services. It was such a rapidly changing scenario it soon took on the look of a fast-forwarded weather map except that reports coming in made it clear that the clouds hanging over Rockham would soon be the smoke of burning buildings rather than that morning’s mysterious promise of rain.

Joshua stood to one side as Anil Chahda took charge. As he watched his deputy calmly issuing orders, his respect for Chahda increased. Having previously seemed stolid, Chahda was now showing how fast, and how effectively, he could move when he had to. Which is more than could be said for those in charge of Rockham police station.

‘What on earth did they think they were doing leaving a patrol car and a bus exposed?’

‘I expect it’s down to inexperience on the ground, sir,’ Chahda said. ‘Gaby Wright was unfortunately away. She’s on her way back and her task, and ours, is to take control. You agree that arrests are not an immediate priority?’

‘Yes. Not enough men on the ground. They can always organise CCTV grabs afterwards. For the moment, let’s just concentrate on making sure that nobody gets killed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Anil smiled, which was not a sight Joshua had ever seen before.

What a mess, and before Joshua had even completed a week in post. By the looks of it even Billy Ridgerton, as capable as he undoubtedly was, would have to work a miracle to stop the trouble with the scarce resources available to him. Wouldn’t be easy, either, to give him more, what with it being Saturday and so many of the men having opted to take their annual leave during this hot spell.

‘Don’t let me get in your way, Anil. Carry on.’

‘Thanks, sir.’ Anil Chahda half turned away but then froze. ‘Uh oh. What’s he doing here?’

‘He’ was Home Secretary Peter Whiteley, who was just then coming through the door.

Damn. They had rioting in Rockham and every indication that it was about to spread. All they needed now was a Home Secretary who, knowing him, was trying to steal a march on his PM and the Mayor by acting the strong man.

‘We need to deal with this. Come with me.’ Joshua made his way over to the door, with Chahda at his heels. ‘Home Secretary, this is a surprise.’ To Peter Whiteley’s bodyguards who were standing to attention, he added, ‘That’s fine, men, relax,’ and then, ‘How can I help you, Home Secretary?’

‘I’ve come to see how I can help you.’ Peter Whiteley lurched forward.

Was he drunk? ‘Thank you, Home Secretary, but as I’m sure you can see,’ Joshua’s gesture embraced all the officers working quietly at their desks, ‘we’re on it.’

‘Anything you need.’ Another lurch: he must be drunk. ‘Permission to use Section 44 for example.’

Oh great. In a situation when they didn’t even have enough officers on the ground to contain the trouble, never mind arrest any of the troublemakers, this idiot was suggesting that they use the blanket provisions of the Terrorism Act. And with the Rockham nick under siege, where did he think they were going to put the people they arrested?

Smile, Joshua told himself, and speak. ‘Thank you for that, Home Secretary, but our immediate priority must be to stop the disruption at the same time as we make sure to keep our officers and the public safe.’

‘Well, how about I get on to the networks? Tell them to apply ACCOLC? Call gapping?’

‘Thank you again, but at this moment there are no reports that the networks are overloaded.’ With great effort, Joshua kept calm. Not for much longer, though. If Peter Whiteley did not take the hint, Joshua would have to tell him, and in no uncertain terms, that political interference in operational policing — albeit under the guise of offering help — would not be tolerated.

‘We cannot have anarchy on our streets,’ Peter Whiteley said. ‘Anything you need. Anything.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Joshua watched one of the officers handing Chahda a piece of paper: must be important or the officer wouldn’t have come over, not with Whiteley there, this thought confirmed by the sight of Chahda blanching.

‘Problem?’

Chahda nodded and said softly in Joshua’s ear, ‘The disturbance is now within two miles of a highly flammable solvent recycling facility. We’ll have to redistribute our men.’

‘What’s that?’ As Peter Whiteley raised his voice, he couldn’t stop himself from doing another little lurch forward. ‘What’s that?’ Not just drunk but a hysteric. And a dangerous one. Now was the time to evict him.

‘We should brief you, Home Secretary, and thoroughly. Anil, if you wouldn’t mind taking the Home Secretary to our spill-out operations room where he will be more comfortable.’ He pointed to the door with such authority that Peter Whiteley obediently turned towards it. ‘I’ll take over temporary command while you’re gone.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Chahda didn’t like it, but he must have realised that if he didn’t get this bloody politician out of Joshua’s hair he’d be having to cope with the consequences of the Metropolitan Commissioner of Police tearing a strip off his Home Secretary in front of the whole of Gold Command. The Mayor would love that. So would the PM. And the tabloids would have a field day when it leaked out, which these things always did.

As the Home Secretary’s embarrassed protection squad followed Whiteley and Chahda, Joshua made his way to the communications officer. ‘Transmit to Silver and Bronze the following communication as an instruction,’ he said, handing over the note on which he’d scrawled some sentences. ‘Send this first. Then contact India 95 and tell them we need thermal imaging and fast. We’ve got to work out how many people are in the area in case we have to evacuate.’ As the officer set to, he added, ‘Put it on loudspeaker, will you?’

Which is how he was able to hear Billy Ridgerton responding to the news with a loud ‘You’ve got to be fucking joking.’

11.15 p.m.

A solvent recycling centre in a built-up area: what muppet had thought that wouldn’t be a problem? And how come it hadn’t been on any of the maps Billy had checked, just in case, earlier that day? Must be a recent act of moronic incompetence and one that had been shuffled out of sight by some pen-pusher.

No time to give vent to his fury. He had instead now to tell men who were already exhausted by the pressure on them and the heat that he was going to further deplete their numbers by dispatching some of them to a factory some peaceful two miles away. They weren’t going to like it.

‘Shift, sir.’ Tony, Billy’s minder, pushed him to one side at the same time as he lifted his short shield over Billy’s head. A piece of something hard, clearly aimed at Billy, bounced off the shield and hit Tony on the cheek. It was a bit of paving stone, sharp at one end. Blood trickled down Tony’s cheek.

‘You okay?’

‘Fine and dandy, sir.’ Tony wiped the blood clear of his eye. It was the third hit he had taken for Billy that evening, and it wasn’t going to be the last.

Four paces ahead, a line of officers was trying to claim ground so as to push on to the junction at Rockhall Park and clear a route for the LFB and LAS, who were champing at the bit behind them.

‘This is diabolical,’ Tony said. They had policed some bad disturbances together — not least the recent G8 where all hell had broken loose — but this was no anti-capitalist riot like G8. It was a full-blown attack on the police, with burning and pillaging as a side order to this main event. That much had been clear from the moment they’d pitched up to be met by a hail of bottles, broken paving stones and even petrol bombs. No wonder some of his men were only too eager to lash out. He’d had to stop a few so far, and he knew he’d have to stop more before the night was out.

He couldn’t really blame them. They all shared the same frustration. They couldn’t push forward fast enough because some of the rioters had had the bright idea of copycatting the G8 maniacs by chaining shopping trolleys together to form a barricade and, would you believe it, the clippers strong enough to cut through were missing from the inventory. Added to that was the heat: although their arm and leg guards offered much-needed protection, they also dramatically increased the wearer’s body temperature. And should they manage to push close enough to the fires to do any good, he would have to worry about their body armour melting, and the nightmare injuries that could arise. He’d already lost one officer. She’d started to fit — badly — and had to be bodily passed back along the police lines until they could get her to an ambulance.

Not a pretty sight to see one of his officers manhandled, even by her own, but this was another thing he couldn’t afford to dwell on. There were so many other people to be fearful for: the members of the public who were caught up in the middle of the disturbance and, even worse, those who might soon be trapped in burning premises; or the likelihood that where petrol bombs and paving stones led, firearms might follow; or that omnipresent terror that one of his men could be separated from the main group and torn to pieces by the mob, something that he was in no doubt could happen if he didn’t manage to keep them all together. Plus there was the worry about the finger-wagging and worse that would follow should one of his hard-pressed men hurt one of the rioters. And while he was weighing up all these possibilities, he had Silver, and now Gold, shouting instructions through his earpiece, along with an urgent need to come up with tactics that would take them in the right direction of a desirable endgame. If all this wasn’t bad enough, India 95 was relaying sightings of the build-up of disturbance in nearby boroughs, which raised the nerve-wracking possibility that one riot might join up with another. And now he had orders to send men two miles away. Not just any men: his bravest and his best.

‘Run over to that shop there.’ Although he was so dry it felt as if he’d been knifed in the throat, he could only make himself heard by bellowing in his runner’s ear. ‘Fetch water for the men. Tell them we’ll pay later: sign a chit for whatever they ask, but don’t come back without water.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Good man, he was off in a trice.

‘Come on.’ This to Tony. ‘We’re going forward.’ With Tony’s shield covering him, they ran together to the lines ahead and pushed through to the front. ‘You four.’ He had to wallop them on the back in quick succession in order to get their attention. ‘Step out.’

By the time they reached the back lines, the runner had returned with water. One of the men punched through the plastic to pull out a bottle, practically ripping off its top with his teeth to get to the liquid, and soon all the others were doing likewise.

‘Take water forward to the men and quickly. Not just this. Much more.’

‘No need, sir,’ the runner pointed ahead to where members of the public, bottles and crates of water in hand, were snaking through the barrage to reach his men and hand the water over.

‘See. Not everybody hates us,’ the runner yelled in Billy’s ear.

No, Billy thought, only the ones who really want to kill us.

Pushing the thought aside, he told the four men that Gold had ordered that they go and organise the possible defence of a solvent reprocessing plant.

‘Are they nuts?’ one of the men said. ‘There’s nowhere near enough of us as it is.’ Despite this statement, Billy caught the glimmer of relief crossing the man’s face. Understandable: if a senior officer was to come along and tell Billy to get the hell out of here, and that’s an order, he’d be gone like a shot. But that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, he must now make less-experienced officers, some of whom showed every sign of wanting to freeze under the onslaught, push forward.

‘Madness,’ he said.

But only to himself.

11.20 p.m.

‘Madness’ was the light-hearted descriptor that passed from mouth to mouth on the High Street as Cathy made her way along it: ‘Madness’.

Instead of the shortcut through the market, she had gone the long way round, approaching the police station from the south. When she saw what was happening, she was glad that she had.

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.

The man and child had disappeared. She made herself retrace in her mind the route in, the number of steps through the flat, counting them back, as with one arm around the woman’s shoulders she stretched the other out in front, feeling for the gap where the door should be. Her mind told her that this was a small flat: how hard could it be to get out? But her perception told a different story: it was as if the smoke, black now, had become the room and it was infinite. She had no idea which way to go.

Time slowed. Somebody breathing heavily. A distraction. She wished they would stop — until it occurred to her that what she was hearing were her own laboured breaths. She took a deep breath in. It almost choked her. She started panting, trying that way to expel the smoke from her lungs. ‘Where’s the door?’

No answer.

‘Door,’ Cathy bellowed as if, even without English, the woman would understand.

She could feel the shaking of the woman’s head.

What if they were going the wrong way? That’s it. The door must be behind them. She made to turn.

The woman grabbed hold of her wrist. It was her place: she would know the way out. Except the woman then seemed to be frozen and trying to keep Cathy with her.

‘Come on.’ It would soon be too late. Which way to go?

A memory flashed through her mind like smoke. Something she needed to remember. She tried with all her might to pull it to her.

She saw Ruben walking with his arms outstretched. That was it: that’s what she needed to do.

She reached out her arms, first in a straight line and then, as she went forward, the woman still holding on to her wrist, she widened them. One hit what felt at first like a wall, but when she ran her hand down she found that it was grooved. An architrave: they must be at the door. She took a step forward. An indent underfoot. A mat. They were on the landing. Which meant that the stairs were to the left.

Or were they to the right?

‘Where are the stairs?’ She couldn’t see the woman any more, could only feel her face and the tears that were rolling down. ‘The stairs!’

No response.

Left, she thought, they must be on the left. She turned left.

A hand pulled her. Not the woman’s this time. The man’s. His face jammed close to hers. She could smell his sweat and it smelt of fear and smoke. The woman grabbed hold of him, running her hands down his arms, and then she began to wail.

‘Come on,’ he was shouting at them both.

The woman was shaking now, so hard Cathy could feel the tremors passing through herself.

‘Her baby! She thinks you’ve lost her baby.’

‘She’s safe. She’s outside.’

The woman wailed even louder.

Cathy folded her arms, one over the other, to make a cradle. Standing tight against the woman, she raised the arms to rock them back and forth, touching the woman’s head to show the motion, back and forth, back and forth, before taking the woman’s arm and pointing it in the direction — right — of the stairs.

The woman’s cries ceased.

‘Let’s go.’ The man turned. ‘Hold on to my shoulders.’

Cathy placed both hands on his shoulders and the woman did likewise to hers, and then the man led them across the corridor and down the stairs.

How he led them out she would never know. The air was so thick, a wall of black smoke that, bending low as he told them to do, they had to push against. Each step took an age; each breath felt like it could be her last. Give up, a voice kept telling her, give up. The only thing that stopped her from listening to that voice was the woman’s hand on her shoulder and an overwhelming need whose name was Lyndall. Give up, she thought again, and then another sound: the heavy burr of a helicopter passing overhead.

They were out. The air she gulped made her dizzy. She dropped to her knees. Gasping. One thought: that she should be left there to do nothing else but breathe.

‘Get up.’ Hands got hold of her and hauled her, scraping her skin, across the ground.

She wanted to get away from those hands. ‘Let go.’ A voice that sounded nothing like hers. ‘Let go.’

At last they did let go.

She was no longer moving, or being moved — was just lying there. The relief of it. She lay still, summoning up the strength to open her eyes. When she found it, she saw that either the night had clouded over or else something had happened to her vision. She tasted grit and ash. Felt something pushing at her lips.

Why wouldn’t they let her alone? She moved her head away. They pulled it back.

‘Drink.’ One hard finger on each side of her jaw forced her mouth open.

They poured in a deep slug of brackish-tasting water. She coughed and the water was regurgitated.

‘Sit her up.’

Hands looped under her arms and hauled her up.

Sitting, her breath came easier. This time when the bottle touched her lips, she took it for herself.

‘Take it easy: sip it.’

Despite that what she wanted to do was gulp it down, she sipped it. This time the water stayed down. When she’d had enough, she upturned what remained over her head, and the smoke that had filmed her vision dissolved.

‘You okay, love?’

She nodded. And heard a shout. ‘There she goes.’

Heads turned towards the building. Hers as well.

She saw the downstairs shop ablaze, and she saw flames licking out of the upper floors. The building was groaning, cracks and crashes coming from deep within it as ceilings fell down onto floors and floors collapsed through to floors below.

To think that she might have been in there.

Above, the helicopter kept circling, its spotlight picking through the crowd that was beginning to edge away from the blazing building. Except, she saw, for a handful of youths who were going forward, intent on offering something to the fire. Something tawny.

A fox. Must be the one whose path had crossed with hers. Then it had been sick; now it must be dead, because it made no effort to get away, neither when the hands held it up nor when they thrust it away.

And then there was a dead fox flying though the air and landing in the building that was to be its funeral pyre.