Turning Point

by Barbara Spencer

  Noticing a left-hand turn some twenty metres away, Scott stepped the bike around the stationary cars ignoring a battery of angry looks. Lined with terraced houses, a hopscotch pattern in yellow and grey stone accompanied the bike downhill, mirroring the direction of the dual-carriageway; the narrow road made narrower by a line of parked cars. At the bottom of the hill, Scott spotted a T-junction, a couple of vehicles waiting to turn into it, their progress stalled by a procession its participants waving placards and chanting. Impatiently, he crawled to a stop. Anyone stuck behind that was going nowhere fast.

  ‘At least we know why the traffic,’ Hilary said.

  She got off the bike rubbing her haunches.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  She gave a nod and taking off her helmet handed it to Scott, fiddling with her hair. Scott smiled. It was odd how a change of clothes and hair colour could affect someone’s personality. In Natasha’s borrowed jacket and with dark hair, Hilary appeared quite the stranger; even the shape of her face seemed different, more vulnerable somehow, ringed by its halo of dark chestnut hair, the bossy fair-headed agent vanished. Scott glanced down noticing that Tulsa’s pistol was no longer tucked into the waistband of her jeans.

  ‘What did you mean back there about giving-up? You’re not serious, are you?’

  Scott flipped up the guard on his visor, his smile edgy. ‘It’s the only way…’

  ‘No!’ she flashed back. ‘You can’t – not on my account. Park the bike somewhere and we’ll get a train to London. The American Embassy – they’ll shelter us.’

  Scott took her hand in his. It was warm. ‘I want to, Hilary, believe me, I want to. But I’m almost sure it was the embassy that betrayed Dad and me in Geneva.’

  Hilary looked shocked, her face under its dark mop drained of colour.

  ‘Watch where you’re going, you effing twerp – you nearly ran into us,’ a voice bellowed.

  Scott glanced back over his shoulder. A group of youths had spilled into the side-road, their placards made from squares of brown cardboard stapled to a wooden pole, thick black marker pen used to write the slogan ‘up with the monarchy.’

  A little way away was a minibus, its rear doors open.

  ‘But I wasn’t moving,’ he protested.

  ‘Yes, you was,’ a voice shouted back. Scott eyed the gang, searching for its owner. ‘Ran over me toe, ye did.’ Even their clothes were designed to intimidate; black jeans with garish T-shirts streaked with artificial blood, skulls and daggers. He caught the glare from a bearded youth at the back of the group. Head and shoulders taller than the rest, he was covered in tattoos like a piece of graffiti on a motorway underpass. ‘’Ere, lads, how about this for a poncy bike? All right for some, innit. Does yer dad know yer out?’

  Hilary gripped his arm tightly and snatching her helmet back, climbed up behind him hastily putting it on. ‘Scott, let’s go,’ she muttered, poking him in the back.

  A burst of chanting filled the air.

  ‘What do we want – Monarchy. When do we want it – now!’

  A youth clutching a loud-hailer darted onto the street, pushing his way to the front of a line of students, their arms tightly linked to show solidarity. Much to the amusement of the crowd, he pretended the procession was an orchestra and began conducting them. Wearing an outrageous mohican, dyed every colour of the rainbow, his skin-tight jeans were liberally sprinkled with silver chains above long black boots. He pranced backwards waving both arms in the air, one still clutching the loud-hailer, occasionally interrupting his arm-waving to shout into it. Laughing, the students rose to the challenge, more and more joining in the chant.

  ‘We students,’ he bellowed, ‘are marchin’ for the friggin’ monarchy. Join us. Make yer voice count. Demand a referendum. We want it back. When do we want it?’

  ‘NOW!’ the herd obediently roared and waved their forest of placards.

  People on the pavements began to applaud.

  Grateful for the diversion, Scott nervously edged the bike round, aiming to step it through the gap between some stationary cars.

  ‘I said, ged-off.’ The bearded youth erupted into view elbowing his way to the forefront of the gang surrounding the bike. Up-close, Scott noticed dried flecks of white foam ringing the sides of his mouth. The guy pressed his leg up against the front wheel to stop it moving and raised his banner aggressively, grasping it like a battle-axe. Alarmed, Scott glanced down and saw steel-tipped boots. No way was this a university student, even the wildest didn’t go round with steel-rimmed toe-caps on their shoes.

  Panicking, he gunned the accelerator hoping the noise would scare him off. A hand grabbed his arm. Scott looked into empty eyes devoid of humanity, nothing he could appeal to. Expressionless, his pupils dilated, the youth stared back. Instinct warned Scott; it wasn’t him the guy was seeing, it was something else – something he needed to destroy. Panicking, he pounded at the boy’s hand, trying to break his grasp.

  ‘I said ged-off.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the placard aiming for his head. He ducked and it crashed down on his visor, momentarily blinding him. Hands dragged at the handlebars, and the bike tilted alarmingly. Scared, Scott got his feet down bracing them against the ground, the strain on his calves unbearable. Hilary screamed and he sensed her being dragged backwards, a feeling of space and air replacing the warmth of her body. There came a series of thumps and he guessed her place on the pillion seat was being fought over.

  Leaping off the bike, he ran over to Hilary. A dark figure was bent over her. Instinctively, his fist flew out striking the guy on the shoulder. Scott felt pain power up his arm and gasped.

  ‘No need for that, I was only tryin’ te help.’ Scott recognised the guy with the loud-hailer.

  Ignoring him, Scott pulled Hilary onto her feet. ‘You all right?’ he said, brushing her down.

  ‘’Course. But the bike!’

  A deluge of scrabbling figures obscured the streamlined silhouette. Helpless, Scott could only watch. The writhing figures reminded him of maggots in a tin of fishing bait, squirming endlessly round and round. No sooner did one gain a perch on the saddle than he was pulled off and left on the ground, another figure using their fists to take his place. The bearded guy sat at the controls laughing like a maniac, the engine thundering out of control and making those in the bike’s path skip nervously to one side, for fear of being run over. Behind him a figure crawled his way up onto the saddle. He stood up, his arms outstretched for balance, the guy sat behind grasping his ankles to keep him upright. Two others tagged on behind, using their boots as skateboards. Screaming like a banshee, the guy at the helm manoeuvred the machine round the parked cars, their occupants staring out with glassy, frightened eyes, their fingers firmly pressed on the door-lock.

  Hilary tugged on his arm. ‘Scott – let’s get out of here.’

  He pulled himself free. ‘No, it’s Dad’s bike. I have to get it back. He’ll kill me if anything happens to it.’

  ‘Scott! No!’

  By now, the march had come to a halt and a wide gap had opened round the rioters, still scuffling among themselves for possession of the bike. Scott dived into the crowd, fights breaking out left and right. ‘Let it go,’ he yelled trying to keep pace with its rolling wheels. Next moment, something heavy hit him across the back of the head and he toppled headlong into a solid wall of milling shapes. He felt boots trampling him down into the concrete. Dazed, he fought his way back onto his knees, unable to see the bike anywhere. In the distance, police sirens sounded, growing louder.

  Hilary grabbed his arm, pulling him up onto his feet. ‘Scott, we have to get out of here,’ she screamed, trying to make herself heard above the racket, ‘the police are coming.’ She swung her helmet at a youth armed with a knife and it clattered to the ground. Scarcely aware of what he was doing, Scott shrugged her away and plunged back into the sea of squabbling figures, ducking the blows headed in his direction.

  The sirens stopped abru
ptly, the noise from the fighting once again taking over. Whistles sounded. Suddenly, as if a starter’s gun had sounded, an avalanche of fleeing figures fought their way through the crowd leaving the red bike alone on the ground, its wheels still spinning. Then Scott saw what the crowd had already seen – smoke spiralling into the air.

  ‘Run!’

  A huge explosion knocked him to the ground. For a moment he felt nothing – then he did, his hip and knee screaming in pain at the force with which he’d been hurled onto the roadway. Dazed, he looked up to see the air saturated with acrid black smoke, flying debris still tumbling to the ground.

  ‘Right, you’re nicked.’

  He was yanked roughly to his feet. Scott recognised the black stab vest. ‘But I haven’t done anything,’ he protested. ‘Hilary?’

  ‘If that’s your girl-friend, I reckon she’s nicked too.’ The officer dragged him into the little side-road, the crowd of onlookers pushing back to let them pass. Over their heads Scott saw a police-van and an ambulance. In the distance another siren sounded purposefully. A second van swung off the dual-carriageway at the top of the hill, driving at speed along the narrow road, its siren blasting out.

  ‘Bloody yobs and your petrol bombs.’

  ‘But I…’

  ‘Shut-it! You’ll get your chance at the station. If it was up to me… Bloody good hiding is what you lot need.’

  In the middle of the street lay a pile of smoking metal where the bike had been, nothing remaining of the elegant scarlet machine. ‘But I wasn’t even riding it,’ he protested.

  ‘Pull the other one. Next, you’re going to tell me you wear your helmet and biker’s gear to yer ballet class.’ Scott didn’t bother to reply; the insult had been intentional, a sneer uppermost in the officer’s voice.

  ‘I say, mate…’

  The driver of the ambulance looked up as Scott was dragged past the open doors of the police van. Briefly he glanced inside, waves of dizziness sweeping over him with the movement. It was full – two officers busily taking names. Relieved he spotted Hilary hunched up in the far corner, her hands over her ears as if trying to block out sound. He guessed, like him, her ears were still ringing from the blast. But at least she was all right – and safe. It didn’t matter what happened to him as long as she was okay.

  ‘This chap’s had a bad crack on the head. Check him out; then stick him in with the others. But keep his helmet – I need it for evidence.’

  The paramedic was a middle-aged man, mostly bald, a narrow fringe of hair circling the back of his head where the rim of his cap perched, his demeanour open and cheerful. ‘Here, let me give you a hand with that,’ he said as Scott fumbled with the strap on his visor and tried to pull it off.

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ He nodded gratefully feeling the pressure on his head lessen as the medic slowly eased his helmet off. He gasped in horror. One side was almost completely crushed.

  He flinched away, feeling fingers prodding his scalp.

  ‘It wasn’t half your lucky day. If you hadn’t been wearing that helmet – and I don’t care what the reason was – most probably you’d be lying here with a fractured skull instead of nursing a bad headache. I think you’re okay but, to be on the safe side, I’ll get a doctor to check you out.’

  ‘Thanks but I’m okay, honest.’

  ‘In a hurry to get arrested, are you?’

  ‘My girlfriend’s in there.’ Scott said, watching the doors to the police-van slam shut. He heard its engine start up. ‘Where are they taking them?’

  ‘Central station to be booked in, followed by a few hours in the cells to cool off, then an appearance in front of a magistrate. Most likely that will be arranged for later in the day. Disorderly conduct carries a mandatory sentence – a minimum seven days in a youth centre.’ Scott swayed, still unsteady on his feet. ‘Here, lad, sit down, you look all in.’

  Scott collapsed down on to the side of a stretcher, his legs giving way. ‘What about a solicitor?’

  ‘Never been arrested before?’ The middle-aged man smiled kind-heartedly.

  ‘No!’

  ‘It’s just like speeding. There, you attend a course on safe-driving for a few hours, pay your fine and Bob’s your uncle, you don’t even get points on your licence. Same thing with misdemeanours – like drunk and disorderly. Magistrate decides if you’re guilty; you do your seven days. It’s like community service, except you get board and lodging. You’re given the chance to pay back by cleaning streets and drains. Then you’re home free, not a stain on your character.’

  ‘But why – what if you’re innocent?’

  ‘It saves on money and time, lad. The Union doesn’t want courts cluttered up with solicitors, only there to make money. Great!’ He raised his arm in a salute. ‘You’re in luck.’

  A small white car squealed to a halt, the words Doctor on call printed on the side. A young man flew out carrying a brief case.

  ‘I heard petrol bombs – told people were hurt.’

  The ambulance driver shook his head. ‘Nothing serious bar this lad. Nasty crack on the head. My mate’s checking the crowd. We were lucky this time.’

  ‘A petrol bomb? Is that what blew up my bike?’ Once again, Scott felt fingers rifling through his hair. Automatically, he pulled away.

  ‘Hurts, does it?’

  ‘A bit of a headache, that’s all.’

  Ignoring him, the doctor pulled a small torch from his briefcase. ‘Cover your left eye.’ A narrow beam searched his right eye. ‘Now the other.’ He snapped the torch off. ‘I think he’s fine – but you’ll ache like the very devil tomorrow.’ He smiled down at Scott. ‘And it’s not wimpish to admit you’ve got a massive headache. Your headgear says it all.’ He nodded in the direction of the flattened helmet. ‘Take two of these now, and I’ll leave you some for later. Officer?’ A police officer standing nearby looked up. ‘He’s all yours but I want him checked every couple of hours.’

  The officer nodded. ‘In you go, lad.’ He pointed to a second police van – half empty. ‘Don’t look so worried – we do this all the time and we never lost a client yet.’

  He grinned cheerfully at the paramedic inside the police van. A girl in her twenties, she was dishing out painkillers and plasters to a row of youths, sporting cuts and bruises.

  Nervously clutching a handful of foil-wrapped painkillers and a cup of water, Scott climbed awkwardly into the van, his back protesting loudly with every movement. A hand flew out, helping him up the steps.

  ‘You hurt?’

  Scott recognised the guy that had led the chanting. He had pulled off his mohican and it sat forlornly on his lap, like a cat that has fallen into a river, its spikes reduced to question marks. His own hair had been layered with clippers creating a pattern across the crown of his head and leaving a long back and sides, lank greasy strands falling down over his face.

  ‘Got a bad crack on the head,’ the police officer answered cheerfully. ‘What’s ye name, lad?’ He pulled out a clipboard.

  ‘Ss… er… er…’ Scott fumbled for the card in his pocket, and pulled it out. ‘Travers Randall,’ he muttered, averting his eyes from the officer’s gaze.

  The young guy whisked the card from Scott’s outstretched hand, examining it intently before handing it back. ‘Never seen one of them before. New, are they?’

  Scott hesitated, uncertain how to answer.

  ‘’Ere, take the weight off.’ The guy smiled in a friendly fashion and flapped his wig at the officer in charge, who had moved on still recording names. ‘He’s local. They’re generally okay. It’s the bastards from county you want to watch out for.’ He held up the remains of the loud-hailer, its edges flat and bent out of shape. He gazed at it ruefully. ‘Made the mistake of beltin’ one of them rioters on the head with it.’

  Scott leaned back against the side of the vehicle and closed his eyes, his head throbbing. Nervously, he fingered the plastic card in his pocket, wishing Travers had kept it. If he was caught with a
phoney ID it would only make matters worse. Besides, it was Travers’ finger prints that were recorded on it – not his. Waves of misery blasted in behind his headache. A week ago they’d been happy – looking forward to Switzerland. Now, there was nothing. He leant forward and, wrapping his head in his arms, gulped back his tears.

  ‘No need to worry, mate, they’ll let ye go. You ain’t done nothin’.’

  Scott peered through his eyelids at the guy next to him, the loud-hailer still gripped in his hands, his dark eyes friendly. Let him go. He had to be joking. He was Scott Anderson, masquerading with forged documents and wanted for murder. And he’d just taken part in a riot. Who would believe him after that? He huddled deeper into his seat, ignoring the conversation around him. At the edge of the darkness, he spotted a kernel of light and reached out for it. At least, in a police station surrounded by rioters, he should be safe.

  Seventeen

  True to his word, Travers had rolled out of bed on the Saturday morning at eight, early for him and, by dint of threatening Natasha with dire consequences if she didn’t get up immediately, managed to get them both out of the house by nine, collecting Mary on the way into Falmouth.

  Mary, an only child of elderly parents, lived in a small Victorian villa and a bigger contrast between the two family homes it was impossible to find. Built around the turn of the twentieth century, when house building was in its prime, it had offered an inside bathroom and toilet – an unbelievable luxury in those times and greatly envied, especially by the less well-off who were forced to make do with a WC at the end of the garden. Over the following century, its solid construction had survived both the bombing in the Second World War and modernisation, although new drainpipes and double-glazing had been fitted, and it remained solid and enduring despite being unpretentious. The Randal house, by contrast, was a product of the twenty-first century. Built on a large parcel of land overlooking the river Fal where it flowed into the bay, it had been chosen for its mooring and the sea-going cruiser was usually to be found tied up at the end of an equally large garden. By force of habit, Travers’ gaze focussed on the river when he got out of bed but the mooring remained empty, his father not yet returned from his trip to France.