Devil in the Detail

by Leo McNeir

  She grimaced. “What did you do that –”

  The reason was all too clear. Advancing towards them was a gang of New Force thugs, about a dozen or so, complete with banners, moving up to join the main body, on the lookout for trouble. They spotted the trio at the same time as Donovan stopped abruptly.

  Anne pushed Buzz hard in the chest. “Down there!” she gasped.

  They had drawn level with a cobbled lane running between the backs of the old houses. Buzz needed no further encouragement. He began running. Donovan took hold of Anne.

  “Are you all right? I’m so sorry. I thought you were running and –”

  “No time,” she gasped. “Later. We gotta go.”

  She pushed Donovan, and they both set off down the alley, Donovan keeping in step with Anne, his face anxious as she ran limping beside him. Cries from behind told them the gang was in full flight chasing them. They had a head start of about a hundred metres. Down one side of the alleyway cars were parked in a long line. At the first one Anne stopped and steadied herself against its bodywork, her head bowed, one foot raised from the ground.

  “It’s no good, I can’t …” She groaned with pain. “You go on.”

  “No way!”

  “We ain’t leavin’ you,” Buzz agreed.

  “Get out of here! They won’t –” She stopped as if choked.

  “Anne!” Donovan grabbed her arm. “Are you –”

  She pointed. The next car in the line was a black BMW … with chromed wheel arches. “My God. Look at this. This is the car.”

  “What car?” Buzz was bewildered.

  Anne looked up at the frightened and deeply puzzled face of the black boy. She stared into his dark brown eyes, saw the dreadlocks hanging from the beret, white teeth between full lips. Those colours: yellow, green, orange, black, the colours of Jamaica, the colours of reggae. All this flashed through her mind in less than a second. In that moment she formed a plan.

  “Buzz, get going! Run and don’t look back.”

  He started to shake his head.

  “Don’t argue, Buzz! Trust me. Get out of here! See us back at the school tonight. Now run!”

  He turned and set off faster than he had ever moved before.

  Donovan began taking hold of Anne. “I can probably carry you if –”

  Her reply startled him. “Have you got a marker pen?”

  “A what?”

  “A felt tip, anything. Hurry up!”

  Her voice was a staccato, edged with pain. She pushed him away. Hurriedly he groped in his bag and produced a black marker. She seized it.

  “Get going, please, Donovan. I’ve got a plan. Just do it!”

  The urgency in her voice made him do as she said. He jogged away from her following in Buzz’s footprints. Accelerating, he glanced back over his shoulder, and was concerned to see her moving round the back of the car as if trying to hide from the mob. It was a pathetic effort. A wave of remorse and anxiety flooded over him, but he kept going out of respect for her wishes.

  He hated himself with every step he took.

  *

  Marnie quickly lost sight of Anne and the other two round a curve in the road they had taken. The four of them were running along the pavement past the houses fronting the racecourse. There was nowhere to hide. The road stretched off into the distance in a continuous terrace with no gaps. Luckily both she and Serena were wearing flat shoes, but they had no chance of outrunning their pursuers. It was just a matter of time.

  Far away across the park the massed ranks of New Force were gathering, and through the trees Marnie could see the tiny blue flashing lights of police cars. All the time the air was filled with the throbbing of drums beating. This was surely not the peaceful county town where nothing happened?

  Glancing over her shoulder, Marnie could see the frontrunners of the mob rounding the corner. So far they were not gaining ground, seeming to prefer hunting in a pack. With her attention diverted, she caught her foot on the raised edge of a paving slab and tipped forward, stumbling for several paces, only regaining balance when Luther steadied her arm. They kept running. Marnie was desperately trying to devise a plan. But there seemed to be no way out. No white knight was going to appear to smash their pursuers with an invincible sword.

  And then from nowhere a half-chance presented itself.

  A few metres ahead a front door opened. An old lady came out with a shopping bag and a scarf on her head over white hair. She was pulling the door shut behind her when she caught sight of the four people running along the pavement. Her expression changed to alarm. Flustered and agitated, she began retreating, pushing the door that had already clicked shut. She fumbled with her key in the lock, anxiously scrabbling at the paintwork.

  The four halted by the hedge of her small front garden. Marnie called out in a breathless voice.

  “Don’t be afraid. I’m sorry if we startled you.”

  “What’s going on?” the woman asked, suspicious, her eyes darting from one to the other.

  Marnie spoke quickly. “There’s a riot. They’re coming down the road. We’re trying to get away from them. We can’t get back to our car.”

  “A riot?” The woman sounded as if she had never heard the word before. “Here?”

  “Back there, coming this way,” said Ralph.

  The woman glanced down the road, then turned and opened her door to go inside. She looked at Marnie and Ralph, Serena and Luther.

  “I’ve seen your picture in the papers, haven’t I? You’d better come inside.”

  They bundled in and stood in the hall, waiting. Seconds later the rioters rushed past, their shapes a crazy etching in the frosted glass door panels, wave after wave charging by. The mob’s momentum was carrying it along. Marnie prayed that they had lost the scent and did not know which house they had entered, as she leaned back against the wall gazing at their unlikely white knight with her shopping bag.

  *

  “’Ere, look what we’ve got ourselves.” It was a hard, ugly voice.

  Anne kept her head down, leaning against the boot of the car, not daring to look up at the assailants who had surrounded her. Others were running past down the lane. She reached down and gripped her ankle, gritting her teeth at the pain that had settled into a continuous sharp ache, throbbing in rhythm with the distant drumbeats.

  “Oh yeah,” said one of the gang. “Tasty.”

  “Bit skinny.” Another hard voice.

  “Who cares when it’s free?”

  This display of wit brought a peal of rough laughter. Anne rested her forehead against her arm, trembling inside, willing herself to stay calm and do what she had to do. She could hear shouting along the alleyway. At that moment her plan seemed implausible if not totally stupid. But it was all she had. She muttered encouragements to herself and took deep breaths to gather every reserve of strength she could muster.

  “What you saying? Hey you. It’s you I’m talkin’ to.”

  Anne murmured a reply.

  “What? Oi! Speak up, you little tart!”

  This time she spoke more clearly. “That black bastard!” Her voice was bitter, almost a snarl.

  “Eh?”

  “Kicked me in the bloody ankle.” She rubbed the ache with genuine feeling and put her foot down, only to wince at the pain. She breathed audibly, with no need of an acting performance, already wondering if she had broken a bone. She rolled down her sock to reveal a pronounced swelling.

  “What you talkin’ about?”

  “This.”

  Anne pulled up the bottom of her jeans and moved her foot sideways into view. The skin looked ominously yellow and was bulging more with every passing second.

  The thugs stared at it. This was not what they had expected. They were scrolling back through their memories to examine what they had seen in the road. There had been three people, two white, one black, running along together. The girl had jumped into the gutter and then grabbed the black one who ran off. What did it mean?

&nb
sp; Anne heard a scream in the distance, a terrified tortured sound. She braced herself to concentrate on the hardest part of her plan. This was the tricky part. And if they knew whose car she was using as a prop, it was not something to contemplate. With two deep breaths, she launched her acting career.

  “Black bastard, doing this to me.” Her tone was heavy with loathing.

  “Oh yeah? Don’t worry, he’ll be taken care of. So what’re you doing here?” Suspicion.

  “What does it look like?”

  Good question. The gang examined their quarry. She was young like them, blonde – very blonde – wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt. Grey trainers. Could she be one of them? Had she been chasing the black kid? What about the other one? He was blonde too. And dressed in black like them.

  “Who were you with?” said the alpha male. “That geezer?”

  “My brother.”

  It figured.

  “What group?”

  This was it, she thought. Anne raised her face to look up at them for the first time. Her stomach turned over; some were holding baseball bats; all looked menacing.

  “Just a local lot. Not proper New Force. We said we’d join in. There are more of us. But we saw the black kid and went after ’im.”

  The gang looked stunned. Staring at Anne’s pale face and light blue eyes, they were surprised to see the mark on her forehead, a swastika. It was not a real tattoo, but it was big and bold. Unmistakeable.

  Suddenly, Anne began to laugh through her pain.

  “What’s up with you?” said alpha male.

  “Your faces for a start. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Two of the gang began moving towards her.

  “Ironic, isn’t it?”

  They hesitated, unaccustomed to such subtleties.

  “What?”

  “This car I’m leaning on, ironic. It’s a BMC.”

  “It’s a BMW, stupid.” Alpha male.

  “You’re the stupid one. It’s a BMC, I’m telling you. Look.” She jabbed a finger at the rear window. “BMC … Black Man’s Car. That’s why it’s ironic.”

  The whole gang moved round to stare at the window.

  “Oh yeah,” said one of them. “Look at that.”

  They looked down on the smiling face of the King of Reggae, and the slogan that we should all stick together and we’ll be all right. A whole row of colourful stickers lined the bottom of the rear window of the BMW, with yellow, green, orange and black stripes predominating. Bob Marley looked out optimistically towards a future that he would not be sharing.

  The violent noise made Anne jump as a baseball bat shattered a side window of the car. Forgetting her injury she turned, trying to back away. The pain from her ankle was agony and she went down on the ground, gasping and breathless. Paying her no attention, the gang scattered looking for missiles. A small pile of bricks standing outside one of the back doors was like a gift from the gods.

  Anne rolled to face away from the car which was subjected to a fierce bombardment. Every window was smashed or dented, every panel of bodywork buckled under the barrage of bricks. Showers of glass rained down on her head which she covered with both arms. At least they had turned their attention away from her. For now. She could only hope that this was a demonstration of their belief in her story. The story of Anne, the Nazi sympathiser.

  She was struck on the shoulder by a brick that bounced off the boot, and she squirmed her way under the body of the van parked behind the BMW. Opening her eyes in her new shelter, she brushed glass out of her hair, reaching down to rub her ankle. It was on fire. She was pulling her feet as far under the overhang as she could when she focused on something in the distance. Her heart missed a beat. The gang of thugs had caught Buzz. He was writhing on the ground under a storm of blows from baseball bats, trying to dodge their attack. Failing. She could hear his cries of terror and pain, and she felt desperate at her own helplessness to go to his aid.

  As tears pricked her eyes she suddenly made out another form. Squatting behind a car further down the line was a dark figure, bending and stretching every few seconds in a bizarre ritual. It was Donovan.

  Anne knew exactly what he was doing. And she promised herself that if she managed to get out of this situation intact, she would add one more piece of trickery to that morning’s performance.

  A new sound brought her back to reality, the screech of tyres that filled her with dread. If it was the arrival of Brandon’s entourage, they would know the car and she would have the devil to pay. The scuffing of running feet made her freeze. The gang was in flight. Heavier shoes were rushing past, and Anne wriggled out of her shelter to find out what was happening. She rolled over and heaved herself into a squatting position, balancing on the car’s bumper.

  The BMW was a total wreck. Hastily she grabbed at the stickers, wrenching them from the remains of the window. She flung them to the ground behind the van, once again accidentally putting weight on her damaged ankle. In pain, she laid her head to rest on the dented boot of the car. With her eyes closed, waiting for the pain to subside, she heard footsteps beside her. Hoping it might be Donovan, she looked up.

  “You are?” The voice carried authority.

  The man facing her was in police uniform, though not that of the local force.

  “Am I glad to see you,” she said wearily. “I’m one of the scheme’s organisers.”

  “So I see.”

  He reached forward and took her by the arm, pulling her towards him. She gave out a cry as her foot met the ground.

  “Take it easy!” She groaned. “I’ve damaged my ankle.”

  “You should’ve thought of that before you started. Come on.”

  He checked her ankle really was injured and, having satisfied himself, supported her along the lane to where two police cars were waiting.

  “My friends are down there. Something terrible has –”

  “Just come this way.”

  Anne had to hop to keep up with his pace.

  “My friends are down the alleyway. We’re trying to stop New Force. We’ve got valuable evidence –”

  “Save it for later.”

  “You don’t understand –”

  “No. You’re the one who doesn’t understand. Now pipe down.”

  “But I’m on your side. Don’t you realise? We’re running the summer scheme.”

  “Our side?” The policeman snorted. “Our side doesn’t wear swastika tattoos, love. You’re in the wrong outfit.”

  He pulled open the car door, put his hand on her head and pushed her onto the back seat. Gripping her injured leg, Anne looked down the alley. The gang of thugs was being chased by the police. Two other officers were bending over a heap lying on the ground. It lay ominously still.

  *

  They could not stay there for ever. After the mob had finished going past the house, the four of them felt uncertain and self-conscious, standing in the narrow hallway of a complete stranger.

  “Thank you so much, Mrs …”

  “Battams.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Battams. I don’t know what we would’ve done if you hadn’t come out when you did.”

  “That’s all right, dear. Would you all like a cup of tea?”

  It was the standard British response to any life-threatening situation. It made Marnie smile, and it almost brought her to tears.

  “That’s very kind, but I think we ought to be going. We’ve got to find out what’s happened to our friends.”

  “Are you sure? You’re very welcome.”

  They assured her they had to be on their way, and Marnie made a call on her mobile.

  “Starcabs.”

  “Hallo, Tony. This is Marnie Walker. Can you send a cab to …” She checked the house number with Mrs Battams. “There are four of us. We need to go to Garfield Primary School.”

  “No problem, Mrs Walker. Five minutes.”

  “Who’ll be driving?”

  “It’ll be … Sarinda.”

&nb
sp; “Ah, no. Do you have a white driver on duty?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I need it to be a white driver. There are disturbances in town. Sarinda might be, you know.”

  “I get you. I’ll send Colin. He’s got the people-carrier.”

  “Thanks, Tony.”

  A silver Galaxy with a red star on the side stopped outside the house, and Mrs Battams went out to check that the street was clear. Turning back to the house, she gave a brief thumbs-up, and her surprise guests filed out. They all thanked her as they climbed into the taxi.

  “Garfield School, is it?”

  “Please.”

  Crossing the traffic lights at the junction, Marnie noticed a police van parked at the roadside and asked Colin to stop. She jumped out and ran across to find a gang of ruffians being herded in through the back doors. A policewoman was standing beside the van.

  “Excuse me. I know you can’t tell me anything, but I’m looking for someone who was being chased by …” She nodded her head towards the ruffians. “People like that lot. It was a girl, blonde hair, thin. Any ideas?”

  “Sorry. There was a girl of that appearance, but she was one of these.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Certain. Swastika tattooed on her face. Not much doubt.”

  Marnie felt deflated. “No. Thank you.” An afterthought. “You’ve got her in the van?”

  “She was injured. They’ve taken her to casualty.”

  Marnie climbed back in the taxi and reported to the others.

  “Okay?” asked the driver.

  “Thanks, Colin.”

  He was pulling away when Marnie had a sudden idea.

  “Can we go via the hospital?”

  The others looked at her in surprise.

  *

  Donovan was sure they had not spotted him. He dropped the camera into his bag and nestled close against the wheel of the van, in case anyone checked under the parked vehicles.

  The thugs split as the police charged them, leaving Buzz where he lay. Donovan swallowed hard. It had taken a superhuman effort to restrain himself from going to his aid when the mob had caught him. He heard the first blow and cry of pain as the baseball bat hit him on the legs to bring him down. After that Buzz had no chance, and Donovan had no chance of helping without suffering the same fate. He felt sick inside but knew he had to do what he could to stay on the offensive.