With a howl of despair, she turned away to shield her face and sank to her knees in front of the crowd, sobbing hysterically, her hands clasped in appeal in front of her.
A hush fell. Wesley Barber, about to light a second bottle for another run, had it snatched from his hand by one of his friends. ‘That’s Col Patterson’s sister,’ he snarled. ‘D’ya want her to burn, too?’
Wesley, slow-witted and pumped up on drugs and adrenalin, bellowed furiously into the silence: ‘Who fucking cares? It’s only a white bitch.’
Everyone heard him. Melanie certainly did. She rose unsteadily to her feet and wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. She carried more authority than she realized, not only because she and her family were well known on the estate, but also because she was so obviously pregnant. As usual, her dress, or lack of it, revealed more than it covered, and no one could misinterpret the way her hand dropped to protect her naked, swollen tummy.
‘My baby’s black,’ she shouted at Wesley. ‘Do you wanna murder blacks, too?’ She raked the crowd with a scathing glance. ‘Is this what you came for? To watch wasted retards like Wesley Barber kill people? How’s anyone gonna get out if these houses start burning? There’s old people and kids in this street. Are you gonna be proud of yourselves when dead kiddies’re brought out on stretchers? Is it gonna make you feel good?’
It was a message that wasn’t lost on the women. Or on Colin. With more courage than he knew he had, he walked the ten yards to stand beside his sister and take her hand, publicly fixing his colours to her mast and ranging himself against his friends. It was a poignant symbol of what had set all this in train – love of family and a desire to safeguard children – and these two slight figures, looking pitifully young with their tear-streaked faces, restored some sanity.
A middle-aged black woman pushed out of the crowd to join them. ‘You keep going, love,’ she told Melanie. ‘You’re doing the right thing.’ She raised her voice. ‘Come on, sisters!’ she bellowed in a deep, throaty roar, far more carrying than Melanie’s higher pitch. ‘Let’s have some solidarity here. This ain’t nothing to do with race.’ She stared Wesley down. ‘And you’d better get your black arse home, boy, before I decide to tell your ma what you called this lady. Mrs Barber’s a fine woman and she’ll whop your hide for it.’
A former schoolfriend of Melanie’s slid away from her boyfriend. ‘I’m up for it,’ she called, shaking herself free of his clutching hand and running to stand by Colin. ‘Youse’ll all get done for murder if you don’t back off,’ she scolded the crowd. ‘This whole bloody thing’s just crazy. My gran’s only three houses down and she ain’t done nothing to any of youse. It ain’t her fault there’s perverts in the road but if you burn them, you burn her, too.’
Others joined them, making a brave little line before the burning door. It stopped any more petrol bombs being thrown, but Wesley wasn’t the only one to lick his lips excitedly as the pine beneath the gloss caught fire and began to shower their backs with sparks.
Jimmy dropped back down Bassindale Row but made no attempt to push his way through the bottleneck at the end of Humbert Street. Instead he bypassed it and turned right into Bassett, which was the next parallel road. This, too, was thronged with people, most of them women, standing on the pavement outside their houses, desperately asking for news of the police. Where were they? Why weren’t they doing something? Did Acid Row not matter? Rumours of petrol bombs were rife. As were stories that houses were being left to burn because fire engines couldn’t get past the barricades.
Jimmy steered a path down the middle of the road and pretended ignorance whenever he was addressed directly. If they were that concerned, they could do what he had and take a look for themselves. The more the better. If even half of these women decided on positive action instead of wringing their hands and complaining about police inaction, the kids on the barricade would be caught with an army behind and an army in front and the chances were they’d slink away with their tails between their legs.
Forest Road South was in flux when he reached it, with frightened people, mostly teenagers, forcing their way down the middle to get away from Humbert Street and others pressing up the pavements to reach it. There was shouting from the ones in the middle.
‘Go home, for Christ’s sake . . .’
‘It’s out of control . . .’
‘Kids are being trampled . . .’
Jimmy caught a girl by the arm. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked her.
She smacked at him in fear. ‘Let go of me, you bastard!’
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he protested. ‘My girlfriend’s in there. Melanie Patterson. She organized the march. Do you know her? Have you seen her?’
She took a breath. ‘Her mum’s helping people get out,’ she stuttered, pointing towards a gap in the fence fifty yards away. ‘She’s in there.’
‘What about Melanie?’
She tried to pull away from him. ‘I don’t know,’ she wailed, beating at him again with panic in her eyes. ‘It ain’t nothing to do with me. I just wanna go home.’
He released her immediately and shouldered his way towards the broken fence. It was becoming increasingly obvious to him that there was no shelter anywhere in this lunatic asylum. Anarchy ruled. But what did they want? he wondered. To bring the house down on top of their heads? Destroy the little they had for a few hours of glory? Leave the Mrs Hinkleys of this world to pick up the pieces after the tantrum was over? Did they even know?
It was all mad. As many youngsters were forcing their way in through the fence from the road as were desperately struggling to get out, and Jimmy guessed that the frightened warnings of the escapees, far from acting as a deterrent, were stimulating a rubberneck curiosity. He pushed his way inside, using his bulk to force a passage, and looked across the bobbing heads to see what was going on. It was pandemonium, bodies jostling for position in the confined space of the first garden, some pushing one way, others pushing another. He saw a friend of Melanie’s brother, Lisa, thirty feet away in a gap in the next fence along, angrily remonstrating with a group of youths. She was in tears, desperately trying to use her negligible weight to stop them from forcing a way in.
As Jimmy watched, one of the boys made a lunge at her, grabbing at her shirt to dislodge her. Jimmy started forward, his towering figure sweeping youngsters aside like confetti, watching while the child fought like a tigress to hold the gap. Good on you, girl, he thought, as he saw her brace herself against the fencing posts on either side of the gap, kicking her sharp little feet at the boy’s shins.
Jimmy hooked an arm round her attacker’s neck, chopping at his hand to break his grip on Lisa’s clothes. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, using his full eighteen stone to hold back the press of bodies behind him.
‘She’s already let loads through,’ said one of the other boys sullenly, ‘so what’s the fucking deal about us?’
‘I couldn’t stop them,’ Lisa sobbed hysterically, pulling her shirt across her flat chest. ‘You’re all so fucking ignorant. You think it’s fun.’
Jimmy looked past her to the chaos in the gardens behind her. ‘What’s the plan?’
She took a deep breath to hold back her sobs, realizing the urgency of making him understand. ‘Make an exit to Forest Road. Persuade everyone to go home. We’ve got a door on to Humbert Street open. Melanie’s mum’s there. She said to make sure this side stays open. But it’s not working ’cos people keep pushing through the fence.’
‘OK.’ Jimmy squeezed his arm tighter round the neck of the boy he was holding and shot out his other hand to grip his sullen friend by the throat. ‘Nod if you know who I am,’ he instructed.
The youth nodded.
‘Then don’t mess with me, because I’m pretty hacked off already with what’s been going on. This is the deal. My lady and her family are in Humbert Street and I want them out. You and your friends are gonna help me. Do you understand?’
Another nod.
&
nbsp; ‘Good.’ He loosened his hold on them both. ‘How many of you? Six? Seven?’
‘Seven.’
He selected the four biggest by putting his hands on their shoulders and stationing them in front of Lisa in the gap. ‘Guard it,’ he ordered them. ‘If anyone gets through from this side, I’ll come after you and beat the fucking shit out of you.’ He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. ‘Capeesh?’
More nods.
‘Lisa will send people out behind you. And you three –’ he touched the heads of the remaining boys – ‘will help get them out on to Forest Road. That means you’ve got to clear this area first. I’ll start you off, then it’s down to you. All right?’
‘They won’t listen to us,’ said the boy whose throat he’d grabbed.
‘Sure they will. Gimme that piece of fencing.’ He nodded towards a sharp-pointed batten that had splintered when the panel had been pushed over to create the exit. ‘This is Armageddon,’ he told them, ‘and you’re on the side of the angels for the first time in your miserable lives.’ He worked saliva into his mouth, seized the batten in a meaty hand and turned round, his eyes bulging from his head and froth foaming at his mouth.
‘WH-AAH-AH!’ he roared, brandishing the spear above his head like Cetshwayo in Zulu. ‘WH-AAH-AH!’
It was the stuff of legend. A huge, mad black geezer putting the horde to flight. The retreat was instantaneous. No one fancied confronting a nutter.
Jimmy’s eyes were still bulging when he rounded on the youths. ‘You’d better be here when I bring my lady out,’ he warned them, ‘or you’re all fucking dead.’
There was no dispute. Only an idiot would argue with a total maniac.
He gave Lisa’s shoulder a comforting squeeze as he edged past her. ‘Give me a shout if they try to run away. I’ll be listening.’ She stared back at him with frightened eyes, and he gave her a quick, encouraging wink. ‘Don’t worry, darlin’. Everything’s going to be fine.’
She believed him and drew confidence from it . . . but she might have felt differently if she knew how often Jimmy James had been wrong.
He wouldn’t have been in prison so often if he’d occasionally been right . . .
Nineteen
Saturday 28 July 2001
Inside 23 Humbert Street
THERE WAS A sudden drop in the noise from outside as a single voice – a girl’s – rose above the crowd. Franek tapped his chest in satisfaction. ‘It is the police,’ he said. ‘First they frighten . . . then they bring order. It is the way of things.’
‘We’d be able to hear megaphones,’ said Sophie, listening.
‘You always argue,’ said the old man angrily. ‘Why not just accept that Franek is right? Is this so hard for you? Where is your courtesy towards the elders?’
‘You’ve done nothing to earn it,’ she said fiercely. ‘And what sort of crap is –’ she dropped into mimicry of his accent again – ‘ “First they frighten . . . then they bring order”? You talk as if they’re the Gestapo. What do you think they’ve just done? Shot every tenth man to encourage the others?’
A sharp flurry of Polish.
‘It would be better if you don’t mention the Gestapo,’ said Nicholas uncomfortably. ‘Many of his family died during the war.’
‘A fair number of mine did, too,’ she said dismissively. ‘There isn’t an Englishman alive today who didn’t lose grandparents or uncles or aunts. It doesn’t pass the “so what” test. Trying to embarrass me into silence isn’t going to make what he says any more sensible. There still haven’t been any sirens,’ she reminded Nicholas.
‘Perhaps they don’t want to aggravate the situation.’
She shook her head. ‘There’d be something,’ she insisted. ‘They know you’re in here. They wouldn’t leave you in fear unnecessarily.’ (She meant ‘me’, of course. They wouldn’t leave me in fear unnecessarily.)
Franek gave a snort of irritation. ‘Enough of this! Who cares what they do if it sends these –’ he gestured contemptuously in the direction of the street – ‘animals back to their cages?’
A scream bloomed in Sophie’s head and she had to fight to control it. ‘I thought you were the animal,’ she snapped back. ‘Animal . . . ! Fucker . . . ! Pervert . . . ! ’ She emphasized each word. ‘Isn’t that what they called you?’
‘What do you know of anything?’
‘I know you’re the one in the cage, Mr Hollis.’
Nicholas laid a restraining hand on his father’s arm. ‘Please don’t do this,’ he begged Sophie. ‘It isn’t necessary.’
‘It is to me,’ she said angrily. ‘Your father’s wrong, and you know it. Something terrible’s happening outside . . . and we’re sitting here like idiots waiting for it to happen because you haven’t the guts to confront him.’
He raised a placating hand. ‘He needs to believe what he’s saying,’ he murmured. ‘It stops him panicking. As a doctor, you should understand that.’
‘Yes, but as his prisoner, I don’t,’ she said curtly. ‘As far as I’m concerned the sooner he has another asthmatic attack the better . . . and you can bloody well do the honours this time, because I’m not going to lift a finger to help him.’
Another silence fell. They were invariably dictated by Nicholas’s refusal to answer, and Sophie wondered if his unwillingness to talk was a form of apathy or a form of manipulation. He surprised her by speaking suddenly.
‘It’s wrong to abandon your principles,’ he said quietly, ‘whatever the circumstances.’
She might have accused him of being patronizing if he hadn’t said it so gently. ‘What are your principles?’ she asked.
He thought for a moment. ‘Tolerance . . . conciliation . . . understanding. I’m not persuaded that provocation and anger achieve anything.’
Neither was Sophie, but nor was she persuaded that sitting on his hands while his father launched an assault on her came under any of those headings. It was her privilege, as the victim, to turn the other cheek; not his, as the passive bystander who hadn’t even been hurt.
‘Conciliation isn’t about doing nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s proactive . . . positive . . . hard work. You have to get between people to prevent confrontation, not look idly by while confrontation is happening. It’s what I want to do with that crowd out there . . . but you won’t let me because you’d rather keep me as a shield to hide behind. And that’s not “understanding” or “tolerance”.’ She paused. ‘It’s cowardice.’
He wouldn’t meet her eyes, but Franek chuckled. ‘You more use to us in here,’ he said. ‘You keep us amused with your little tantrums. You so scared you can’t keep your mouth closed even for a minute.’ He held up his hand and worked his fingers and thumb like a duck’s beak. ‘Quack . . . quack . . . quack. Your mamma should have taught you to keep it closed. You’ll drive a man mad with your nagging. But maybe you don’t have one, eh? Maybe they all run away because you so bossy.’
Briefly, she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply through her nose. God, how she hated this old man . . . ‘The world’s changed since you last had anything to do with a woman, Mr Hollis.’
‘What is this supposed to mean?’
She caught the warning glance that Nicholas flicked in her direction and took a firmer grip on the cricket bat. ‘The only woman who would come near a Neanderthal like you,’ she spat at him, ‘would be one you had to pay . . . and a whore would say or do anything as long as you gave her money up front. So don’t tell me how to make a successful relationship . . . You haven’t even been able to do that with your son.’
His eyes bored into her. ‘Milosz gets on fine with his dada . . . always has done. You ask him if you don’t believe me.’
‘There’d be no point,’ she said. ‘He’s already made it clear he believes in tolerating people, and presumably you fall into the category he’s prepared to tolerate, otherwise he wouldn’t be living with you.’
‘There you are then. You wrong.’
‘Except I wouldn’t des
cribe an uneasy truce between an ignorant, violent bully and a man who sits in silence as a successful relationship.’ She raised a sarcastic eyebrow. ‘It works for you because you need to believe in the fantasy that you have some control, but it isn’t working for Nicholas if he has to switch off his feelings in order to live with you.’ She stared him down. ‘So don’t tell me I’m wrong, Mr Hollis, when you don’t know any better than I do what your son really thinks about you.’
He jabbed his finger at her again. ‘You be quiet now . . . you no longer amusing.’
‘The truth never is,’ she said with a small laugh, ‘particularly if you’re prone to panic attacks.’
‘I make Milosz shut you up,’ he warned.
Sophie studied the son’s bent head and the way his thin hands writhed in his lap and decided not to test him. She kept thinking about her telephone call, wondering if Jenny had understood what she said. Her thoughts were an unconscious echo of the question the women in Bassett Road were asking. Did Acid Row not matter? Did rape not matter?
She felt a terrible guilt for her own self-deprecating sense of humour. It must be her fault. Jenny had thought she was joshing. She was always making stupid jokes about sex. ‘What do you mean it’s big? You should see an elephant’s . . . they’re so big they dangle on the ground . . .’ ‘If you don’t give it a rest occasionally, it’ll drop off . . .’ ‘My mother always said a man could be turned on by the backs of a woman’s knees . . . but I didn’t believe her . . .’
She should have called the police directly. No policeman would have considered a woman’s cry of ‘rape’ a joke. Perhaps she still should? Indecision racked her again. What to do? What to do? The mobile was her one trump card. Her only lifeline with the outside world. If she revealed that she had it, Franek would certainly take it off her to prevent her giving her version of events. If she didn’t reveal it, how would anyone know what was happening here?
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