The Dark Horizon, page 19
June took off her scarf and hat and laid them under Steve’s head. Drips of blood seeped onto the rainbow colours, spreading like blots of red ink. The man was whimpering, a strange, inhuman sound.
Maggie pulled his coat tighter, a pathetic defence against the unvanquishable cold and pervasive fear. She began whispering to him, soothing words that could never mean a thing; that everything would be all right, the ambulance would soon be here, that he’d be better in a few days. And June, so tender, even with shaking hands cradling Steve’s head.
Esme and Alice just stood, cuddled together, unable to move, unable to help, unable to do anything except share the shock of the moment. The pair were as pallid as the surrounding snow.
This protest, this righteous gesture, had turned from frivolity to barbarity; the land of childhood forever lost. No one, no matter what their radicalism, their hatred, nor how embittered, could look at the vile offence of the incision into a young man’s face.
Inside the group of protesters, Seb turned away and spat bile. Mac muttered, ‘No, no, no,’ to himself, fists clenched hard in those deep leather pockets. In the distance, the siren of an ambulance wailed.
And from the Resurgam compound Rees and Tommy came running, picking a way through the thinnest patches of the snow. Rees was in the lead, stronger, fitter and faster. He reached the crumpled police officer and shoved June, sending her sprawling across the pavement into a bank of icy slush.
Maggie tried to remonstrate, to intervene, but was also pushed ruthlessly away, stumbling to her knees beside June.
‘You fucker!’ came a shout. Mac was sprinting, full tilt, filled with the irresistible momentum of uncontrollable anger, careering towards the security man; a teenage rebel who could no longer hide his heart.
He launched himself into an arc of flight and the pair went spinning, tumbling into the snow, Mac’s fists a blur of beating fury. Rees twisted, kicking out, trying to free himself, but not a chance, not from the power of this red spirit released.
A group of the Ecowarriors began running towards the melee. A police car span around the corner, followed by another. Cops jumped out, took in the scene in an instant and pitched into the fight, trying to push through the crowd and pull the pair apart, fending off flailing arms and legs.
The phoney war was over. The Battle of Resurgam had begun.
All around, the fires of conflict spread. A pack of cops forced their way through the melee to where PC Steve was lying, the paramedics following. They knelt in the slush beside the injured officer and began a quick and expert examination, a couple of officers standing guard. Experienced though they may be in the insanity of the world, neither could look at the treatment being given to their young colleague.
Two more cops forced Rees and Mac apart. Rees was protesting, Mac just looked stunned, perhaps with what he’d witnessed, maybe with himself. His fists were raw, bleeding with the force of his attack.
Seb was alongside Alice, holding her, pulling her into him as if trying to cocoon her, protect her from any more of the torment this savage new world could inflict. Maggie was picking June up from the slush, fussing gently. ‘I’d better get you to a doctor, given…’
‘I’m fine, I’m all right, I’m staying.’ June shook off the attention, but her voice was thin. Her greying hair was damp with dirty melt water and her coat streaked with icy grime.
In the gutter lay a rough snowball, one side smeared with blood, the jagged edge of a piece of flint protruding.
‘Who did this?’ a sergeant demanded, voice filled with the reckoning of the law but more besides; an unmistakeable blade of emotion.
It was Richard Wagstaff, only the turning of a calendar away from the end of his service, but tall, lean and fit, with a kind face. Good natured enough, even after all these long days of policing to be nicknamed The Wag, today humour was an alien land. For this was the man who gave PC Steve the beat of Resurgam.
And now trying not to let the toxins of the thought spread. That this would never have happened if… that maybe it was too much to ask of a probationer…
The Ecowarriors stood in their pack, a block of sullen defiance. Hands in pockets, faces unyielding.
‘Who – did – this?’
The Wag’s words were quieter now, but ridden with infinite menace. There was going to be an answer to the question.
Yet nothing came in reply. Traffic was backing up the road, a long tail of a jam. The paramedics were shifting PC Steve onto a stretcher. The young officer was crying.
And now, at last, a voice replied. ‘It’s always us, eh? Whenever anything happens, it’s straight to us. Why not…’
‘We’re not having a debate,’ Wagstaff cut in. ‘It’s simple. Tell me who did this - right now.’
‘Or what?’ Simian grunted.
‘Or I’ll arrest the bloody lot of you.’
Around the sergeant uniforms were gathering. Each cop, bulky with their stab vests and coats, eyes set on the protesters. Staring at the men and women before them, in their threadbare jackets, jeans and hats. It was primeval now, no longer professional and detached, but two opposing gangs.
‘Last chance,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’ve got a young lad with a gaping hole in his head where his eye was. You talk now or you do it at the station – but you’re going to do it.’
‘You reckon?’ Esther replied, with the hint of a mocking smile. And that was enough.
Wagstaff grabbed for her, but found his arms caught by Simian. The two strained together in an equilibrium of loathing, the rest of the cops pitched in and the battle began anew.
Unseen by most in the unfolding melee, something curious happened. Tommy was standing beside the police lines, watching as they waded into the pack of protesters. He looked to Esther, a gaze that felt meaningful, even imploring, and mouthed some words. But she gave him nothing, not even an acknowledgement, a snub as hard as a cigarette crushed under the heel of a boot.
The opposing battalions were unfairly matched, more than double the number of demonstrators to the forces of the law. But the siren of the ambulance as it took their fellow to hospital was everywhere and plenty enough to even the odds.
Some of the Ecowarriors had already been arrested. They weren’t resisting, but weren’t cooperating either. They’d slumped onto the icy ground, a few lying in pools of slush, others tucked up on their sides. Policemen and women were trying to shift them, haul them away, but there were too few for the leaden mass of resistance.
Esther was glowing. It was as if she’d absorbed the heat of the battle, savoured its fiery sustenance. Diminutive by comparison with most, she was still dominant. With fast eyes and quicksilver thoughts, Esther was taking in all around her.
She slipped to the back of the group, whispering to anyone she passed. In turn they spoke to their neighbours who spread on the words.
On the front line Simian was still struggling with the sergeant, locked together in a wrestling dance, other cops trying to grab and hold him. But he was strong, resisting hard, continually shifting and slapping away their hands, kicking out with heavy, swinging boots.
Amongst the demonstrators the whisper was spreading. From the back Esther was watching, always calculating. Only when she was sure everyone had understood did she shout, ‘Now!’
Each of the rag tag band began running. In all directions they headed, a human explosion. Some made for the small fleet of ramshackle coaches which had brought them here, some for Resurgam, others along the road.
A group of women linked arms and lay down in the oiled mire of the street. More spread themselves across the access road.
Protesters were emerging from the coaches, armed anew. Glass phials flew through the snowfall and the foul stench of stink bombs curdled the winter air. Smoke canisters were being hurled too, trails of white and grey fattening and lingering. Cops were everywhere, trying to chase down the haze of movement, but they were outnumbered and outmanoeuvred.
Some of the Ecowarriors had made it to Resurgam. A couple of men jumped into the bucket of a digger and were hurling grit and snow at police officers. A group of women were handcuffing themselves to the steel skeleton of the building.
More police cars were converging, the air punctured with the screams of their sirens. But otherwise the sound of the battle was curiously subdued. There was the occasional shout or yell, but most of the noise was the panting of men and women as they ran and dodged, feinted and grappled.
June sat on a bench, a hand on her chest, Maggie holding a coat around her. Mac had been escorted to a police van to calm down. He walked with a curious mix of pride and self-consciousness. Rees was still remonstrating angrily with an officer. ‘Let me go, I’m on your fucking side,’ he kept saying, gesturing wildly, as if trying to rouse an invisible orchestra.
Esme and Alice had been standing, watching the battle. A woman ran past and went to lay down on the access road, but was grabbed by a policeman and hauled away.
More snow was falling, light and drifting, gentle flakes of white. Esme flicked some from her hair and found a decision. She began walking towards the line of protesters in the road, lay down and linked arms, became absorbed in the mass. Alice watched, blue eyes shining with admiration. She followed, but was intercepted by a policewoman.
A shout rose from across the street. Esther had been standing on a bench, like a general of olden days commanding an army. She jumped down, careered into the officer’s back, knocking her over, grabbed Alice’s hand and pulled her away towards Resurgam.
More police poured into the area. In lines they formed and advanced, hunting in packs, surrounding and dealing with each pocket of resistance.
Simian took four cops to subdue him, one for each muscular limb. ‘Bastards,’ he roared, time and again. ‘We’ll have the fucking thing down one way or another!’
The police helicopter was hovering above, filling the compound with a buffeting, roaring downdraft. Snow sped around, spinning whirlwinds in the air.
Cops were pulling at the line of women who were blocking the road. Slowly, muscle by sinew, the chain gave. One after another they were hauled up and away. Esme was the first to be arrested. She looked abashed, but managed a wan smile at the cheer from the rest of the protesters.
Esther was still running, towards Resurgam, pulling Alice with her, but found the gates shut and chained. She stopped, hesitated, checked back on the battle. Most of the demonstrators had been arrested, just a few still resisting.
‘We should stop,’ Alice panted.
‘Never!’
Esther darted for a van parked by the gates, clambered up onto its bonnet and then roof, balancing carefully on the slippery, icy surface.
‘Come on!’
Alice took the proffered hand and also climbed up. Esther was laughing, her face flushed with a rush of delight, her arms in the air. She was the master of this stage, the creator of a storm, intoxicated by her power.
The police who had ended the protest in the road were brushing themselves down, ready for the next stage of the campaign. At a word from one they began advancing on the van.
Esther grabbed Alice’s hand. ‘Stay with me.’
‘Shouldn’t we come down?’
‘Never.’
‘But…’
‘Never!’ Esther yelled. ‘How far did your little camp here get you? And now… we’ll be all over the TV. And more like us will come.’
‘But – Steve. Poor Steve…’
Seb had seen what was happening, was running over, shouting, ‘Alice, Alice!’ Fear filled his every movement. He was stopped, held back, flailed and struggled, reached out desperately for Alice, but could make no progress through the gathering cordon.
A ring of police officers surrounded the van. ‘Come down,’ one said. But Esther just smiled and clutched tighter at Alice’s hand.
From along the road a group of demonstrators began running for Resurgam, sprinting hard. They dodged around a police car, as practiced as rugby players, headed straight for the gates.
The engine of a police van started up and it accelerated towards the compound, white headlights bouncing in the gloom.
Seb had stopped struggling, was still now, just watching. It was as if he’d been petrified by a sense of what would happen next.
Below Esther and Alice, a policeman found a foothold on a tyre. He climbed onto the bonnet, advancing carefully. Esther edged backwards, pulling Alice with her.
‘That’s enough messing about,’ the officer said. ‘I want you both down.’
‘Where’s your manners?’ Esther mocked. ‘We haven’t even been introduced.’
‘Look you…’
‘No names, no coming down.’
‘I’m PC Warr,’ he said, heavily.
‘Nice name for a keeper of the peace. But you forgot the magic word.’
The policeman breathed out heavily. ‘Come down… please.’
‘Shan’t!’ Esther called, and kicked some snow onto the watching ring of cops.
The police van was close, speeding towards Resurgam, engine roaring. PC Warr took advantage of the distraction and reached for Esther’s leg. But she dodged, stepped aside and slipped on the frozen roof. She flung out a panicked hand, found Alice’s jacket and grabbed at it.
The support steadied Esther, but the sudden movement knocked Alice off balance. She teetered for a second, arms grasping at the icy air, then fell backwards, right into the path of the van.
Brakes screeched and jarred. Alice screamed. The driver pumped at the pedal, trying desperately to stop. But the tarmac was far too slippery, the van moving too fast for there to be any hope. And a little way down the road, a young man’s life was forever frozen in that winter moment.
CHAPTER 20
On this December morning, a day dedicated to parading the glory of Resurgam, a hiatus held the compound. It was the canyon between action and understanding, the time taken for synapses to flip and realisation to seep.
An explosion… an explosion…
Then came the shock. Hacks, cameramen and photographers shouting and swearing.
The line of security men holding fast, as the honour of the job demanded. But eyes were darting around, seeking the threat, muscles tensing in readiness.
The protesters, a few open mouthed, others gripping tight to their placards. The multitudes of staff stopping their sweeping, polishing, all awaiting to see what happened next.
Which was nothing. There were no more explosions, no screaming, nothing aside from the usual grumbling traffic backdrop of an urban winter Thursday.
‘It came from outside,’ one reporter was saying. ‘Bloody close.’
‘A car backfiring?’ another asked, with a marked lack of conviction.
‘No chance,’ a photographer scoffed. ‘It’s got to be to do with Resurgam.’
They were all looking over the barrier of The Wall, to the city skyline. And there, perhaps a couple of hundred metres away, a column of dark smoke was rising.
The time was almost ten to noon. Any second now, the doors would slide open and Ellen Dance emerge to make her statement. And then, for the first time, they would be allowed inside to capture the spectacle.
As the marketing people put it; the moment you’ve been waiting for.
‘What do we do?’ Nigel whispered to Dan.
‘It can’t be a coincidence.’
‘Well, no. But…’
‘What?’
‘Can we risk missing the opening?’
Dan swore. From behind the line of security men Jackie Denyer appeared. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ she soothed, ‘Just a gas bottle in one of the local pubs, apparently. Standby please. It’s one minute to Ms Dance’s statement.’
She beamed out a smile. It was wide and white, as carefree as a mother watching her children playing at the seaside. But this was a master of manipulation, with a thousand expressions ready on demand.
The pack waited, hesitated. The pillar of smoke was growing.
Nigel looked to Dan. ‘What’re we going to do?’
Dan swore again, but this time with far more élan. Even in the bitter cold, he was sweating.
‘Is there time to get the newsroom to send someone else?’ Nigel suggested.
‘They’ll miss all the action if it’s something big.’
‘And if it’s not, we’ll miss the shots of Resurgam opening. And it could be your job riding on this.’
‘Thirty seconds to Ms Dance,’ Denyer called.
Hacks were looking to each other, dilemma in their faces. Police officers were jogging along the street towards the explosion.
Dan studied Denyer. That smile was fixed, immovable. But she was a bluffer. And so was he.
‘We’re going,’ Dan shouted.
‘I can assure you it’s nothing…’
‘We’re going anyway. We’ll be back later.’
‘If you leave, I warn you - we won’t be able to let you back in.’
Dan let his eyes hold hers through the icy gloom. Denyer stood stout in a fine black coat, perfectly upright, commanding the situation. The smile never faltered.
But one fingernail, a rosebud of red, was scratching distractedly at the pile of papers in her arm.
Dan grabbed Nigel and they started running.
No quest of a reporter’s research this, it took only an instant to find the source of the explosion. Smoke was still rising, a smear spreading in the misty sky, an accusing finger pointing to the detonation.
Police officers were cordoning off the area, pushing people back. They were working outwards from where an old-fashioned red phone box had stood. One of the few remaining, it had become a fondly admired anachronism in a mobile phone world. But no longer.
The lines of windows had been blown out. Daggers of fragmented glass were strewn on the road. At the rounded top the smart red paint was blackened and charred, the panels which invited people to phone from here were warped and melted, like the wax of old candles.
The box was filled with black fumes, some still billowing from the shattered windows. A bitter smell of scorching tainted the winter air.
