Stephen Booth - Scared to Live

‘I’ve asked for a car to cruise through the rugby ground to see if they can spot Mullen’s car at the park-and-ride.’

‘Good idea.’

Kotsev was waiting for him on the pavement. Most of the police officers deployed in Matlock Bath tonight were on traffic duty, keeping the lines of cars moving. Across the road, the gardens themselves were being patrolled by security staff and stewards in yellow jackets. As soon as the fairground and fast-food stalls had set up, the barriers were taken down and people began to filter past the volunteers standing by with buckets for donations.

‘There are so many people,’ said Cooper. ‘We’d better split up from here. You know what Brian Mullen looks like, Georgi?’

‘I have the photograph. And there’s the child with him — ’

‘Yes, probably.’

Cooper worked his way past the St John Ambulance, the Venetian Boat Builders Association, stalls for the Cats Protection League and a Chernobyl children’s charity. A woman who looked like a gypsy pulled a scarf across her face and turned away from the light. A fortune teller, or perhaps a pickpocket. Well, it wasn’t his business tonight.

It was dark now, and all the children were carrying rainbow spinners, yellow light sticks or flashing fish. One by one, they stopped and pointed at the illuminated butterflies and dragons in the trees. Cooper came to a central area lined with fast-food vans. The local radio station, Peak FM, had set up its roadshow in the bandstand, where an ageing Elvis in a black outfit was belting out songs from a cloud of green artificial smoke.

Further on was the fairground. An old-fashioned ferris wheel, a mini waltzer, a set of dodgem cars and a train ride. Down at this end of the gardens, the mixture of smells was enough to make your head swim: diesel fumes from the generator running the dodgems, chemicals from a row of portaloos, hot dogs and onions from a fast-food van.

He stood between the boom of rap music blasting across the dodgems circuit and the sound of a teenage rock band performing ‘Layla’ in a cloud of green smoke at the Peak FM roadshow. Around him were the screams of children on the pirate boat, the constant clang of a bell on the train ride. A would-be Eric Clapton launched into a dramatic guitar solo.

‘Even if they’re here, there’s no way we’ll spot them in this crush. We don’t stand a chance.’

‘Stay near the front of the crowd. He won’t have Luanne at the back, if he wants her to see the boats.’

‘OK.’

The strings of coloured lights were reflected and elongated in the water, and across the river the trees on the hillside were lit by patches of brilliant colour — blue, green, red. Seven thirty came and went. By the time announcements over the PA system warned of the impending boat parade, people were already jostling for the best positions along both banks of the river and on the new bridge. Above the gardens, a bus passed behind the illuminated trees. In the distance, Upper Towers was lit up on the Heights of Abraham. It floated in the sky like some airborne castle.

‘There are people standing three deep on the bridge. I don’t know how it can take the weight.’

‘That’s nothing. They’re about five deep this side of the river. It looks pretty much the same across the other side.’

‘At least they’re standing in one place now, instead of moving about. Let’s try and get round the crowd while the boats keep their attention.’

The commentary was almost impossible to make out from here. It was a loud blare, an indistinguishable voice echoing among the trees, only the occasional word emerging from the babble. The announcer seemed to be telling the crowd that the winning boat was called American Express.

The boats drifted out one at a time from the boat jetty until they were in the middle of the current. When they were midstream, each one lit up suddenly, to a cheer from the children on the bank. So the Empire State Building and the White House appeared all at once in the darkness, drifting above the water, glittering in multi-coloured lights that reflected on the surface.

The winner was followed by more boats. A steam engine rode magically on the river, a miniature paddle steamer floated in a pool of its own light. There was a vintage car, a carousel, a biplane, a Viking longboat. As they came by, it was impossible to distinguish the boats from their reflections, red cascades bursting and rippling across the surface in the splash of oars.

‘It’s hopeless, Diane.’

‘Keep trying.’

Cooper worked his way through the crowds on the bank. People were so tightly packed that it was impossible to walk normally. He found it uncomfortable to move with such short steps, squeezing his way between the backs of strangers. Some of the faces were too close to make out. People were standing on the slopes to see over the crowd. Some were under the lights, and some were in darkness. Underfoot, it was impossible to see if you were treading in mud or a puddle. A light drizzle had begun to fall, adding a mist to the blur of coloured lights above the heads of the crowd.

Soon after eight o’clock, people began to drift out of the gardens again, and Cooper made his way back across the bridge. The raised areas of grass had been trodden into mud and people slipped on damp tree roots. Fast-food cartons crunched underfoot. The rock band was still playing, but had moved on to ‘Sweet Child of Mine’.

‘Where are you, Ben?’

‘I’m near the bandstand. Look for the Dinky Donuts van. You can’t miss it — there’s a big pink thing on the roof, like an inflated condom.’

‘OK, I see it.’

Cooper waited, the crowds separating around him, music blasting his ears. Teenagers walked by with their mobile phones held out in front of them to take photographs of each other. He thought he caught a glimpse of the gypsy woman again, a blue scarf flashing briefly in the lights. When the band finished playing, the announcer started trying to persuade everyone to move across to the west bank of the river for the fireworks display.

‘I’m still here, Diane. I can’t see you yet.’

His ear piece was silent. And for a moment, Cooper remembered that you didn’t have to be a recluse to be alone. It was possible to feel desperately alone even in the middle of the biggest crowd.

An air of anticipation developed again as nine o’clock approached. Streams of people came back over the bridge to the gardens, or stood on the pavements outside the Pavilion and the Fishpond pub. Their faces were turned up towards the rock face of High Tor. The hill rose into the night sky above the swathes of multi-coloured trees. An expectant hush gradually developed, but for a little chatter here and there.

Then the crowd was silenced by a terrific bang that hit the village like a huge hand had been slapped down on the landscape. It punched eardrums and stopped a few hearts, judging by the expressions on the faces around him. It was the maroon, the single loud report that signalled the start of the display.

The maroon was followed by flares, fountains and rockets, candles. Brilliant white star bursts and red blossoms. They produced a barrage of bangs and whistles, whizzes and crackles, intense light and smoke. Glittering, coloured fire hung over the tor. A canopy of colour exploded into sparks, bangs, crackles and whistles. He saw the characteristic sparkling tail of a rocket on its way up. Screamers and screechers chased each other into the sky. Small stars and balls of fire changed colour in flight, finishing with a series of bangs. Comets grew brighter, their tails splitting into small fragments. Serpents snaked and wriggled through the air.

‘Hold on. Diane, I can see him.’

‘Brian Mullen?’