Ник Харкуэй - Tigerman

She smiled wanly. ‘Thank you.’

He looked at the road, the residue of conflict on it, then back at her. ‘What happened here?’

‘The crowd came, obviously. Beneseffe and the dockmen stood them down. Well, I say that. It was pretty much a medieval battle. They even had drummers, or near enough. It was… insane.’

‘Raoul?’

‘He wanted to go out and tell them off! I told him no, so he’s angry with me. He’s inside painting a curse, I think, on anyone who burns their own town. On people who smash what’s beautiful. It’s like they can’t bear to see anything good now that they know it’s going to go. Know it properly, I mean. The word’s out on that: that the end is nigh. So now this. If it’s special you smash it before someone else does. I said anyone who does that doesn’t need cursing, and he told me I was a hippy.’ A lovers’ tiff, and a proof of mutual affection. She waved her hand. ‘Do you want to come in?’

But the Sergeant was already running for the Land Rover, because if there was one place in Beauville which was beautiful it was the street of the card-players, with its white steps and trailing flowers.

‘Ferris,’ the Sergeant shouted into his phone, ‘and you know bloody well how to spell it. Now get Jed Kershaw on the phone and tell him it’s the Brevet-Consul of Her Majesty’s United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and I need to know why his lads are sitting in barracks with their thumbs up their arse! I’m not pissing about – this is,’ he groped for the form of words, ‘this is a matter bearing upon the United Kingdom’s willingness to cede sovereign claim to this island to the international protection force.’ The Consul had told him if he ever seriously wanted to get Kershaw’s attention, this was the way to do it. It’ll scare the living shit out of him , the Consul had said, and he’ll be frightfully cross, so don’t do it unless you have to. And for God’s sake, whatever you do don’t imply that you’re actively asserting sovereignty. That could really start some sort of war.

Kershaw came on the line a moment later, and he did indeed sound very pissed off. ‘What the actual fuck, Lester?’

‘Sorry, Jed, I don’t have time to piss about. There’s a bloody riot happening! Get your lads out on the street and do some good!’ He threw the Land Rover around a tight turn and saw the back of the crowd, torches and spars dangling in loose hands. All moving the same way, yes, somehow drawing together again into a mass.

Kershaw snarled at him down the phone. ‘Oh, thank you, Lester! I did notice the fucking riot, but I decided that since NatProMan is specifically charged with exploding the entire island when the time comes, just maybe my guys were not the ideal fucking choice of policing for the streets of Beauville right now, but I’m sorry I didn’t fucking check with you first! And by the way, Sergeant ’ – he spat the rank as if it tasted of rot – ‘don’t you ever fucking bring the diplomatic incident with me! You’re a nice guy, Lester, and I’m sure in a bar in Shropshire you’re tougher than shit, but in this world you are a fucking minnow and I am a shark, do you get me? A fucking shark! And this is where I swim. So unless you have the Queen standing behind you in her armour, ready to fucking joust for this shithole, get off my phone and go back to your castle and stay there until you get orders from your boss!’

The Sergeant stopped the Land Rover and stared into the handset. He left the line open and he could hear Kershaw’s breathing. Over on his right was the mob, about five or six minutes from the street of the card-players. He could hear them, no longer like a mad laugh but a sort of sigh, as if the joy had gone out of their destruction but they had a duty to see it through.

‘Good night, Jed,’ he said gently, and hung up. Shouting worked on enlisted men and sometimes on junior officers, but it was never really an answer, just a way to get the discussion started. You drove them off until you could welcome them back, and that made them grateful. But he couldn’t do that here, with Kershaw. The two of them were in balance, each sovereign and neither truly in control.

He put the phone in his pocket and drove the Land Rover around the back of the old market square, then got out and walked the rest of the way.

The white stone gleamed in the orange light of the sky. The vanguard of the mob was arriving, but the street of the card-players was so neat that there was almost nothing to tear up or burn. The window boxes had been raised to the upper floors, the doors were shut. The flags were sheer and perfect. The Sergeant wondered, briefly, if it was all going to be all right.

And then he saw, under the one soft lantern, the dealer sitting at his table with a deck and a bottle, waiting.

The mob saw him at the same moment and surged forward around him, mocking and plucking. A young boxer took one free chair away and smashed it against the road, then when this met with scattered laughter and encouragement, slouched down into the next seat and poured himself a drink. He knocked it back, then threw the glass away, moved to the last free chair and repeated the gesture, staring at the old man.

A door opened, somewhere, and the sweeper came out with her broom and started to sweep up the broken glass.

The card-player gently retrieved his bottle and took a swig, then handed it back before the boxer could object.

For a moment, it seemed to be working. The sheer, brazen normality of it was waking them, bringing them to themselves. A moment more, and they would have names again, and a sense of self. They were tired. The bacchanal was run out, and the dawn was coming. It was cold and the air was blowing dust. It was working.

And then a woman near the sweeper said: ‘You missed a bit here, by me,’ and when the sweeper went to get it she kicked it lightly away.

The sweeper pursued it patiently, but the woman chased and kicked it again, and the sweeper slipped and went down, and the whole street heard the crack as she landed hard on one hip, and the reedy cry which went out of her. Her outstretched hand, reaching for solace and assistance, caught the woman by the ankle.

‘Get off me!’ the woman shrieked at her, and kicked out, and the toe of her shoe clipped the sweeper across the mouth. It was – it all was – an accident.

The dealer shot to his feet and started to speak and the boxer came up with him, drawing back his hand to silence what he assumed would be a furious denunciation with his fist, and the Sergeant shouted: ‘No!’

He stepped into the silence awkwardly, wishing for his full uniform, for something which spoke of what he represented, what he was, but he only had his parade-ground voice, and it would have to be enough.

‘Siddown!’ he barked at the dealer, and the man sank to his chair again. I am obeyed . He knew the mob had registered it, could feel them making space for him. Authority, exercised on their behalf. ‘And you,’ he added more gently to the boxer. ‘That right hand of yours is used to gloves. You hit that old fart with it and you’ll ruin your knuckles for months. Don’t be a twit.’ He turned before the young man could object. He had to keep moving, keep making sense. ‘I’m Lester,’ he said. ‘I’m supposed to be up at the big house hiding under the carpet, but I’ve got friends down here and I didn’t want them to get hurt so I came. I’ve seen him fight at the gym,’ he added, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘He’s a terror. Faster than you’d believe. Drops his shoulder a bit, mind, but a good coach’ll break that habit. Someone take off their coat for that lady, please, she’s old enough to be my mother and shouldn’t be lying in the cold. You, miss, would you mind stepping back aways?’ This to the woman who had felled her. ‘I think you’ve had a bit of a shock. It’s always hard to be close to something like this, you always feel it’s somehow your fault and it never is.’ Bemused, the woman backed away and was embraced solicitously by those around her. A moment later, the sweeper was covered in a makeshift blanket.