James Craig - London Calling

After a few moments, the dizziness eased. Sticking another couple of aspirin in his mouth, he took a final swig of water and swallowed quickly. Standing up, he began moving slowly up the street, away from the din of conflict. A police Alsatian had become separated from his handler, and was casually walking along the road too, heading away from all the noise and confusion. Like Carlyle, the dog looked as if he’d had more than enough for the day.

Carlyle kept his eyes on the ground, quickly jumping backwards as a piece of brick exploded near his feet.

‘Fuck off, pig!’

Carlyle looked up. Almost twenty feet away, he saw a kid of maybe ten or eleven flipping him the finger. Laughing at the disorientated policeman, the kid turned on his heels and started sprinting off down the road. Almost immediately, he tripped over his feet and crashed on to the tarmac, skidding along the street in a ball of blood, snot and tears. Serves the little shit right, Carlyle thought. Resisting the temptation to go over and give him a kick, he kept on walking.

What he wanted was some shade, but there was none to be found. He was in a regular terraced street of straightforward two-up, two-down red-brick houses, each with a cobbled yard at the back and a small garden at the front. It was a typical Northern working-class neighbourhood, the kind of road where trees were in short supply.

In the end, he settled for the shade provided by an overgrown hedge, about five feet tall and seven feet wide, bordering a garden maybe eight doors along from the ambulance. He slipped through the open gate and slumped down on the threadbare grass, before crawling under the bush in search of a little respite from the relentless sun and the blinding light.

Carlyle was woken by a man’s scream, followed by the sounds of a struggle nearby.

‘Get off me you, bastard…’

‘Bite me, would you?’ the male voice growled.

‘Stop it.’

‘C’mon…’

‘Fuck… right… OFF!’

‘Bitch!’

He slowly realised that they were somewhere behind him, in another garden, three doors further along. Getting to his feet, he squinted through the intervening hedge. Unable to see anything, he stepped back into the street and moved towards the arguing voices.

He saw the woman first. She was wearing worn blue jeans and a grubby white V-neck T-shirt. Behind her stood a policeman, sweating profusely in the same protective gear as Carlyle. His helmet had been knocked to the ground, and he had one arm wrapped around her neck. His other hand was firmly clamped on her left breast, which he was pawing slowly in a clockwise direction.

As he stepped closer, Carlyle could see that the woman was not wearing a bra. Her nipples were erect, clearly visible through her T-shirt. He had not had sex – of any description – for more than a fortnight, and now felt a sharp twinge in his groin. The stirring of it brought him a welcome distraction from the headache, but he was embarrassed all the same and felt his cheeks flush.

Looking up, both of them eyed Carlyle warily.

She was about 5’4”, with short blond hair. This was clearly one of the enemy within, one of the women that supported the strikers on the picket line; probably someone’s wife or girlfriend. Her grey eyes were hard and blazed with hatred. Aged anything from twenty-five to fifty-plus, she looked pinched, tired and thin, with the same washed-out, grubby, bleached complexion they all had.

The absence of any badge numbers didn’t stop Carlyle from recognising Trevor Miller. They had come up from London together at the beginning of the tour and, although the two of them didn’t always end up working on the same picket line, Carlyle had noticed him on each of the last three days. Maybe five years older than Carlyle, Miller was far too full of himself, a mouthy so-and-so only too eager to hold forth on what he was going to do to these ‘stupid Northern wankers’. Carlyle had last seen him earlier the same day, chasing some bloke over a patch of waste ground in the no man’s land intervening between the police and the pickets. The striker had been wearing a toy police hat covered in union stickers, as he flipped Miller the finger and headed off like a scalded cat. Trevor, truncheon at the ready, struggled to catch up with him through a barrage of catcalls and the occasional missile hurled by other strikers.

That had been several hours ago. So what was Miller doing here, now?

Recognising Carlyle, he sized up the situation for a second or two, preparing an explanation. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, his expression blank, ‘I’ve got this sorted.’ He glanced down at his hand, which remained clamped on the woman’s breast, rising and falling with her breathing.

‘What’s going on, Trevor?’

The woman belatedly piped up: ‘He’s touching me up, the dirty bastard.’

Carlyle took a step closer. Miller automatically took a step back, half dragging the woman with him. ‘Just fuck off out of it, Carlyle,’ he snarled. He was six foot plus, which Carlyle knew gave him about four inches in height and probably about forty pounds in weight. Miller could beat him to a pulp with one hand tied behind his back, but Carlyle knew that he was all front. He could face him down.

The woman started squirming again. ‘Get him off me!’

Carlyle stepped through the gate and into the garden. ‘What did she do?’

‘She assaulted me.’

‘Fuck off,’ the woman spat in fury. ‘You assaulted me, put me in a headlock, grabbed my tits and started squeezing them. Fucking pervert.’

Unbelievably, Trevor started grinning.

‘Trevor,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘she’s half your size.’

‘So?’ He seemed genuinely surprised by the idea that there might be a problem with what he was doing.

‘So,’ Carlyle shouted, ‘the only way she could have assaulted you is with a loaded AK47. Let her fucking go!’

Miller looked at him blankly, a bead of sweat hanging from the tip of his nose.

‘Now!’

Stepping sideways, Miller tramped some flower or other into the dirt. Maybe it was even a weed. Staring off into the middle distance, he gave Carlyle’s request several seconds’ thought. ‘Mind your own business, you wanker,’ was his considered reply.

It was time for a change of tack. Carlyle spread his arms wide and adopted what he hoped was his most philosophical tone: ‘Mate, think about it. You don’t want a complaint. It could seriously hurt your career.’

Trevor grunted. ‘I’m making an arrest.’

‘This is the kind of thing that could cost you your job.’ Carlyle was about five feet away from them now, edging closer.

‘I’ve done nothing wrong here, Carlyle.’ Trevor looked and sounded like a little boy. A monster of a little boy.

‘Let her go… c’mon we have to get back.’

‘No!’ Trevor shook his head.

Carlyle took another step towards him, trying not to stare at the woman’s nipples which seemed to be getting even bigger. Maybe I’m becoming delusional, he thought. ‘You have to.’

At last, Trevor recognised that Carlyle wasn’t going to just walk away. Finally, he let go of the woman’s breast and loosened the neck hold slightly. The woman immediately sank her teeth into his arm and bit him as hard as she could.

‘Fuck!’ Trevor grunted.

With all the gear he was wearing, Carlyle doubted if she even broke the skin, but Miller instinctively recoiled and pushed her away. The woman took this as her cue to make a dash for freedom. She bolted past Carlyle, a bottle-blonde blur that was out of the garden and down the road before he could react. Showing a nice turn of speed, and, Carlyle noticed, a very shapely arse, she was round a corner and out of sight in a matter of seconds.

Trevor struggled with his options as he tried to decide whether or not to give chase. In the end, the final decision was no decision. He shrugged, and the spell was broken.