Redlaw - 01

by James Lovegrove

  “No doubt.”

  “But it was the best I could do. So I’ve been working within your system, secretly, anonymously, striving to achieve the same goal as SHADE. And now this blasted Nathaniel Lambourne comes along and makes a mockery of it all. I could... Well, I think you can imagine what I’d like to do to him.”

  “Join the queue,” said Redlaw.

  “We have a saying in Albania, about those we hate. ‘Let’s fart up their nose.’ Lambourne deserves that and a whole lot worse.”

  The bus had passed Westminster Cathedral and New Scotland Yard and was approaching Parliament Square. Here it began to slow, and all at once braked sharply and came to a complete stop.

  Redlaw, peering ahead through the upper deck’s front windows, whistled in disbelief.

  “What the hell’s going on there?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  What was going on was the inevitable outcome of one group of agitators meeting another group of agitators, as ideologically and sociologically antithetical as it was possible to be. Opposites had come together, but if there was any attraction it was of the mutual-loathing kind.

  The PETS protestors arrived in the square first. The “pallbearers” at the front laid their coffin down at the foot of the statue of Winston Churchill. The rest gathered on the lawn facing the Houses of Parliament and quickly set about voicing their opposition to Solarville, the Prime Minister and Nathaniel Lambourne. With almost no traffic in the vicinity, the sound of their chants carried far.

  Police soon appeared. They had been given no advance notification of the march, making it an unlawful assembly. And on Parliament’s very doorstep. Through megaphones, officers instructed the PETS people to disperse.

  The response from the dark-clad, pale-skinned crowd was to raise the volume. Placards were waved more emphatically than ever.

  “Free the vamps!” went the cry. “Free the vamps! Free the vamps!”

  Riot squads were mobilised, but by the time they had suited up and reached the scene, it was too late. The Stokers had already put in an appearance and the situation had become explosive.

  The Stokers and their assorted hangers-on swept down Bridge Street like some thuggish tsunami. They burst onto Parliament Square at a run, charging headlong into the throng of PETS protestors. With little hesitation, they put the weapons they had brought with them to use. They were outnumbered by a ratio of two to one, but the baseball bats and crowbars evened those odds somewhat. The solid mass of PETS people broke apart as the Stokers drove into them in a rough wedge formation. All at once men and women in black were scattering in every direction, while skinheads in trainers and sportswear bludgeoned and battered.

  Recovering from the initial shock of the attack, the PETS protestors regrouped and retaliated. The lengths of two-by-four to which their placards were attached were pressed into service as cudgels and pikestaffs. The coffin was unlidded to reveal a stash of clubs, knives, coshes, a couple of World War II bayonets, even a regimental sabre. Opposition had been anticipated.

  Suddenly the Stokers were rivalled blow for blow. Everywhere, vampire lover and vampire hater clashed and clashed again, snarling, spitting, swearing. Running battles were fought on the lawn and in the road and on the pavement beside the railings around Parliament. The police who were present got out of the way, wisely. Coming between two brawling, weapon-brandishing mobs was not in their job remit. Let the Territorial Support Group boys with the shields and the training do that.

  Blood, inevitably, flowed. A girl dressed equally well for her wedding or her funeral fell to the ground screaming, one eyeball bulging wrongly from its socket. A man in a Manchester United away-strip shirt staggered off with his arm held out, staring at a lump of flesh so broken and mangled he could barely recognise it as his own hand. A cadaverous creature in top hat and tails crawled on all fours gathering up lost teeth, two of which were the crowns that turned his upper canines into fake fangs. A skinny wretch with sovereign rings and jail tattoos tried repeatedly to smooth a flap of torn skin back onto his scalp, his efforts having a kind of pathetic patience to them, as if he was having difficulty with a stray lock of hair.

  The tide of combat surged to and fro, occasionally spilling over onto the streets around the square. For a time, neither side seemed to be winning. It was all just universal mayhem and mêlée, weapons rising and falling, fists flying, strife as far as the eye could see.

  Gradually, though, it became apparent that the Stokers were gaining the upper hand. Their opponents simply weren’t a match when it came to naked aggression. Many of the Stokers were ex-servicemen, experienced football hooligans or former jailbirds with convictions for assault and GBH. They came from a world where violence was commonplace, and had no qualms about inviting others to join them in it and demonstrating how it worked.

  The worst of the fighting was over by the time the riot police turned up. That didn’t prevent them piling out of their paddywagons and starting to dispense justice straight away with their batons. Consequently, just as things had begun quietening down, trouble flared again, as a new front was opened up.

  It was at this point that the night bus carrying Redlaw and Illyria came to a halt in Broad Sanctuary just west of the square, midway between the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre and the tremendous Gothic bulk of the Collegiate Church of St Peter at Westminster, better known as Westminster Abbey.

  Redlaw took in the situation at a glance. Three clearly distinguishable forces were at loggerheads with one another. It was like watching three tribes, armed only with the most basic of weapons, vying for supremacy on some primeval plain—an ancient conflict brought to stark, bloody life in the heart of modern London.

  “Well, brilliant idea,” he said to Illyria. “‘Let’s get on a bus, see where it takes us.’ Right into a massive great punch-up is where.”

  “Stop whining, Redlaw. We’re in here, they’re out there. We can’t possibly get caught up in it.”

  “Don’t you believe it.” Redlaw headed down the staircase to the lower deck.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To tell the driver to turn us around and go back the way we came.”

  The driver flatly refused the request. “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It isn’t the route. I’m round the square then down Millbank. That’s the route. Can’t deviate from it.”

  “But there’s people fighting. Use your eyes. Look at the blood. Look at that man sitting in the gutter over there with his face gashed open. That woman limping.”

  “So? Nothing’s actually happening on my vehicle, is it? So I’ll wait here ’til it all simmers down, then drive on. You just go back to your seat, luv. Shouldn’t be standing here talking to me anyway. It’s against regulations.”

  “Oh for—!”

  “Redlaw,” said Illyria, who had followed him down. “If you’re so deuced bothered about it, let’s just get off. We’ll carry on on foot.”

  “Can’t let you out,” said the driver. “That’s also against regulations. We’re not at a stop.”

  “Open the door,” Illyria demanded.

  “No.” The driver folded her arms beneath her bosom, looking priggish and adamant. To her, working for Transport For London wasn’t just employment, it was a vocation. She was proud to be part of a service that met its targets and delivered on its promises, come what may—or at least tried its best to. That was why she was out driving—keeping up her end of the contract between journey provider and passenger—when many of her colleagues had declined to turn up for work at the depot this evening.

  “Don’t be so obstinate, woman,” Illyria told her. “I can break the door open if I like.”

  “That would be criminal damage, resulting in prosecution and a fine, if convicted.”

  “I can break you open too.”

  “Transport For London staff have a right to work without fear of physical or verbal intimidation. Says so on that notice up there. See? So lay one finger on
me, missy, and you’ll—”

  “Dammit.”

  This from Redlaw, who had spotted something out of the rear window.

  “What?” said Illyria, looking. “Ah, yes. Dammit.”

  A SHADE patrol car was approaching from behind. The glare of its headlights made the two occupants difficult to identify, but Redlaw thought he recognised at least one of the silhouetted figures.

  Khalid.

  “Let’s move. Now!” He hammered on the bus’s central door. “Open up. Come on.”

  “No way,” said the driver. “Shout at me all you like, but until we’re at a stop that door stays shut. It’s a health and safety issue.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Illyria said to her. Then to Redlaw: “Stand back.”

  Grasping two poles to brace herself, Illyria gave the door a hearty kick, buckling it. Another kick and its windows shattered. A third kick and both halves of the door splayed outwards at skewed angles.

  “Hoy!” the driver yelled indignantly. “This is all being recorded on CCTV, you know. I’ll see you in court.”

  A few more kicks and Illyria had created an aperture wide enough to slide out through sideways.

  However, the patrol car put paid to that plan by pulling up directly adjacent to the bus. Khalid was in the driving seat, and his window was gliding down and his Cindermaker was coming up.

  “Back!” Redlaw cried out as a Fraxinus round entered through the doorway and exited through a window on the other side.

  Illyria was already in motion. Ducking low, she raced along the bus to the rear. Bullets punched holes in the bus’s bodywork, chasing her up the aisle. Khalid knew what she was. Macarthur had pegged her as some form of vampire, meaning SHADE officers had carte blanche to dust her on sight.

  Redlaw loosed off a couple of shots at the patrol car, forcing Khalid and his fellow officer—Qureshi—to take cover. He didn’t much care whether he hit them or not. Then he darted up the aisle after Illyria.

  “Down!” he yelled. She flattened herself on the floor and he took out the rear window with a single bullet. Nuggets of safety glass showered everywhere. Meanwhile the bus driver cowered in her seat, shrieking something about her bus, vandalism, she’d be suing SHADE for trauma, personal injury, you name it.

  Redlaw scrambled through the hollowed window, tearing his coat sleeve on one of the shards that fringed the frame like the tatters of a spider web. Illyria leapt nimbly out and landed beside him. Khalid and Qureshi were both exiting the patrol car.

  “This way.” Redlaw headed round the pavement side of the bus. He pulled Illyria by the wrist to make sure she came with him. They were going in the direction of Parliament Square and the fighting.

  “Into the thick of that?” Illyria said. “Why not away from?”

  “We’ll be an open target out on the road. They won’t shoot at us in the midst of all those people. Plus, I’ve had an idea.”

  “About time too.”

  Within seconds, they were surrounded by bloodshed. Two jumpsuited riot police were taking it in turns to stamp on a Stoker’s head. A Stoker was giving a PETS protestor a hearty drubbing with the aid of brass knuckledusters. A PETS couple with matching scarlet contact lenses were beating up a riot cop, using his own baton and helmet.

  Redlaw and Illyria ran diagonally across the square, dodging left or right when any of the combatants lumbered into their path. Khalid and Qureshi were close behind. Redlaw buttoned up his coat one-handed as he went, hiding his weapons vest. His Cindermaker was holstered out of sight.

  They neared two large clusters of Stokers and PETS protestors, who had taken a breather and were now squaring off, ready to resume hostilities. On either side everyone looked wild-eyed, hot-cheeked and raggedly mad.

  “Shadies!” Redlaw announced, gesticulating behind him. “Look! Bloody shadies!”

  All eyes turned towards Khalid and Qureshi, who stopped dead in their tracks. If they’d been cars there would have been a screeching of brakes.

  One of the Stokers snarled, “Fuck me. Fangbangers.”

  A PETS woman of Amazonian proportions pointed an accusing finger. “It’s the Sunless Hounding And Discrimination Executive. They lock them up. They murder them.”

  Almost as one, both groups of people let out a furious bellowing roar. They might not agree on much, but on this they were unanimous: they despised SHADE officers.

  “No!” said Khalid, as the Stokers and PETS protestors began to move menacingly towards him and Qureshi. “No! It’s a trick. He’s one too. That man.”

  He meant Redlaw, but nobody believed him. It was just some old bloke in an overcoat with a ripped sleeve. If he was SHADE, where was his uniform?

  “Stop,” said Qureshi, aiming his gun at the approaching rioters. “I’ll shoot. I really will.”

  As if out of nowhere a half-brick came sailing through the air, and struck him on the forehead. Qureshi staggered and sank to his knees.

  “Car,” said Khalid. “Back to the car.” He grabbed his colleague by the arm, hoisted him to his feet, and was off, hauling a rubbery-legged Qureshi with him. The Stokers and PETS protestors gave chase.

  The two shadies almost made it to safety. They were within yards of the car when they were overtaken. Redlaw looked on with no small satisfaction as their pursuers dragged them to the ground and doled out a good kicking.

  “‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord,” he growled.

  “Well, vengeance is Redlaw’s, at any rate,” said Illyria. “I’m not so certain the Lord would approve. I think you went a tad Old Testament there.”

  “Khalid had it coming. Anyway, look. Those riot squadders are wading in to help. Law enforcement solidarity.”

  Sure enough, Support Group police had spotted the SHADE officers’ plight and were going to their aid. Batons rose and fell as they worked their way through the milling crowd to Khalid and Qureshi at the centre. They plucked the two of them out like prizes from a piñata and escorted them off to the sidelines within a stockade of polycarbonate shields. Both men were bruised, bloodied and bedraggled, and Qureshi was quivering and weeping in abject terror.

  “It’s almost like you knew that would happen,” said Illyria.

  “I didn’t, as a matter of fact,” Redlaw replied. “I was rather hoping they’d get beaten to within an inch of their lives—Khalid maybe an inch the other side.”

  “And here’s you telling me to hurt people as little as possible. Double standards, eh what?”

  “This was a special case.” Redlaw sidestepped as a PETS man came howling past with a stocky Stoker hot on his heels. “Anyway, we should make ourselves scarce. This isn’t the safest of places to be.”

  They hadn’t gone more than a few paces before they were confronted by a wall of advancing riot police. These were reinforcements, part of a secondary call-up, newly arrived. They were moving into the square en masse, with a view to herding the rioters towards the north-west corner and ‘kettling’ them in Great George Street. Another, similar-sized contingent was marching north up Millbank to do the same. All wore full-face gas masks.

  Redlaw paused, quickly weighing his options.

  From behind the ranks of police came a series of hollow, fluting detonations, the sound of CS gas canisters being launched. Moments later, clouds of white vapour bloomed in the square, spreading swiftly.

  “I’ll barge a hole straight through,” Illyria said, gesturing towards the riot squadders. “We’ll be out the other side in a jiffy.”

  “No. There’s an alternative.”

  “I don’t see one.”

  “There.” He indicated the Houses of Parliament.

  “We walk up to the gate and ask them to let us in?”

  “Can’t hurt to try.”

  The gas was drifting towards them in a thickening haze. Redlaw bunched his coat cuff over his nose and mouth and hurried towards the building’s main entrance. By the time he got there his eyes were streaming and his nostrils were dripping something th
at felt like acid. He thrust his SHADE badge through the bars of the gate and waved it at the police officers stationed on the other side—the Met’s Parliamentary security team, all of them armed with semiautomatic carbines.

  “Let us in, for God’s sake!”

  “Sir,” said one of the police officers, “please step back.”

  “We’re just bystanders. Do we look like we came here to protest?”

  “This is a restricted area. We’re on a state of high alert. Without proper authorisation, no one gets in.”

  “But I’m SHADE.”

  The policeman looked anything but impressed. “Don’t care if you’re the Queen of ruddy Sheba, mate. Now back off.” He hefted his gun ever so slightly. “I’m not carrying this thing for fun.”

  “So much for law enforcement solidarity,” said Illyria to Redlaw. “We’re back to ‘barge a hole straight through,’ then.”

  The riot squadders were closing in from both sides, the jaws of a human vice squeezing the Stokers and PETS protestors together. Out in the middle of the square, where the CS gas was thickest, people were crawling on their hands and knees, choking and retching.

  “Perhaps...” Redlaw began, but then someone on the other side of the gate spoke his name.

  “Captain Redlaw? That is Captain Redlaw, right?”

  Redlaw blinked. His eyes stung so badly that everything was a tortured, swimming blur. He could just make out the face of the young man addressing him. It was a familiar one.

  “Gentlemen,” the young man said to the police security team, “don’t you know who this is? Why are you making him stay out there where he could get his brains bashed in? Let him in. Now.”

  “Will you vouch for him, sir?”

  “Of course I bloody will. That’s Captain John Redlaw, living legend. Don’t know what he’s doing here, but he needs sanctuary. Open the gate.”

  With a show of surly deference the policeman went to the gatehouse and pressed a switch. In no time Redlaw and Illyria were within the precincts of Parliament, safely separated from the turmoil in the square.