Nick Oldham - Backlash

Then — wham! Something fell from above and the last officer went down with a scream as a microwave oven slammed down onto his shoulder.

‘Jesus!’ Henry cowered down, raising his short shield over himself and the fallen man. Up on the edge of the roof of the shop he could see figures moving about. While the helicopter had been distracted away from the shop, other rioters had sneaked around the back of the shop and climbed onto the low roof armed with various missiles and got into a position over the front door from where they could bombard the police below.

Several empty plastic crates were hurled down. Henry fended them off, surprised at how heavy they were. ‘November 21,’ he bellowed into his radio, ‘get back over the shop. Get the roof cleared. We’re under attack.’

He saw a beer barrel being raised. Empty or not, this was going to hurt — or kill.

‘Christ — my fucking shoulder,’ the injured officer moaned.

Henry braced himself for the impact, his left arm holding the shield above him and the prostrate man. He knew it offered little real protection.

The helicopter swung back and lit up the whole area, swooping down over the roof. The rioters dropped the barrel over the edge and it bounced harmlessly two feet away from Henry. Moments later he and the injured officer had been grabbed and yanked into the carrier. Byrne gunned the vehicle away before the side door was closed properly.

Henry got his breath, steadying himself. He eased his helmet off and ran his sleeve over his dirty, sweat-streaked forehead, blowing out his cheeks. He looked round at everyone crammed in there: eight constables who had worked together superbly; the Khan family, no doubt ungrateful but safe; Dave Seymour and Jane Roscoe.

He wanted to have a little victorious smile, but events ensured he was not allowed to savour the moment.

‘I think he’s stopped breathing,’ Roscoe said.

‘You do the heart,’ he said to Roscoe and, bravely, ‘I’ll do the lungs.’

He held out his helmet for someone to take, then stepped over Seymour and squeezed down between some seats so that he was at right angles to the man’s head. He glanced at Roscoe. She was almost directly opposite him, but had skewed her body so that she was in a position to start pumping Seymour’s chest. Both of them were in very tight, restricted positions with little or no room to move.

Henry felt for a pulse in Seymour’s chubby neck. God, it was hard to tell in the circumstances. His fingers pressed to the side of the windpipe did not detect anything.

‘No pulse.’ He shook his head at Roscoe.

The carrier rolled sideways wildly as Byrne took it round a sharp corner and crunched the gears again. Henry lost his balance and fell forwards, the crown of his head clashing with Roscoe’s cheek.

‘Shit!’ he yelled in Byrne’s direction, a sore head now compounding the situation.

‘Soreee,’ Byrne apologised.

Henry rubbed his head, Roscoe rubbed her cheek.

‘OK — go for it,’ he told her.

Henry watched her move into action, counting herself in. Immediately she began heart massage, one hand on top of the other. ‘One. . two. . three. .’ she intoned, leaning heavily into the task, putting her whole weight behind it. She stopped. ‘Now you.’

To be honest, Henry was not looking forward to this moment: mouth to mouth with Dave Seymour was not a prospect to be savoured at the best of times, although he did remember once snogging him at a CID party years ago. He bent his head over the detective’s face and tilted the big man’s head right back to open up the air passage. He closed the finger and thumb of his right hand over Seymour’s nostrils, clipping them tight shut and held open Seymour’s mouth with the other hand. Henry opened his own mouth, inhaled, and clamped it over Dave Seymour’s, while fighting back the urge to retch; ensuring there was an airtight seal, he blew into his mouth.

From his position, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world, secreted in a way in which no one would ever be able to discover him, David Gill had watched the proceedings take place in and around Mo Khan’s shop. In fact he had been so close to the action that he could have made things happen. But he held back. That wasn’t his role. Others had been tasked to do the donkey-work. Gill did not need to get involved.

All the while it was happening there had been that smug look of superiority on his face as he watched the cops running round like headless chickens, then their fancy idea of using the helicopter to scare the shit out of the rioters.

In fact Gill quite admired that touch. It had given them an advantage they would not have had otherwise and they had used it well. It had given them the chance to rescue the Asian family, which wasn’t what Gill had wanted at all. He had planned for them to be slain, burned to death in their shop which they had bought from under the noses of white men. Their deaths would have been true justice, but maybe that had been a little too ambitious and maybe it was to his advantage that they stayed alive. It kept the embers of unrest aglow. It gave a focus. Yes, Gill thought. Embers which in the very near future would have more petrol thrown on them.

All in all, a good start to the campaign.

David Gill was pleased.

Henry Christie checked his watch under the dim glow provided by the interior light above the rear-view mirror. He yawned widely at the same time and realised he had not actually taken cognisance of the time, so he did a double-take and exclaimed, ‘Bloody hell!’

It was ten past midnight. Already. ‘Doesn’t time fly when you’re enjoying yourself?’ he asked no one in particular.

Dermot Byrne nodded agreement and yawned himself, set off by Henry. ‘Must be catching.’ He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

They were still in the armoured personnel carrier, Henry and Byrne up front, two constables in the back, pretty much flaked out from the chasing around they had been doing for the last few hours. They were parked on the outskirts of the Shoreside estate.

As best he could in the cramped conditions, Henry stretched his aching muscles and limbs. Suddenly he too was very weary. He needed a shot of something. He was very aware that he had had enough of wearing his cumbersome riot gear, wanted to get out of it, shower and get into a nice clean uniform.

‘I’m fucked,’ he admitted. ‘Need my bed. . any bed, actually.’

‘First night’s always the hardest,’ Byrne said.

‘Yeah, I vaguely remember that being so.’ He stifled the next yawn with some difficulty. ‘Let’s take a sweep round the estate, Dermot,’ he said, ‘and let’s start pulling patrols in for refreshments. Things seem to have quietened down somewhat.’

The engine had been ticking over so Byrne sat up and crawled onto the estate while relaying terse instructions via his radio to the patrols, allowing some to stand down for breaks while ensuring a very visible presence remained on the estate. The latter point was purposely laboured because it had been obvious from the shenanigans of the past few hours that the disturbances on Shoreside were being skilfully co-ordinated by people equipped with scanners tuned to the police frequency. Byrne wanted the unwanted listeners to know the police would not be withdrawing.

Henry’s blood pressure rose slightly as the carrier entered the areas which had earlier been hotspots. Now they were peaceful. Nothing had gone down for at least half an hour.

The streets were full of prowling police vehicles, mainly reinforcements drawn in from neighbouring divisions. Henry would soon have to decide whether or not to release them but he did not want to act in haste. Probably keep them there another hour or so and if it all stayed cool, pull them out, say thanks and bye.