Devil in the Detail

by Leo McNeir

  And where was Anne? What was the plan she devised that had made her send him and Buzz away? What had happened to her? He only had brief moments after hearing the crashes and bangs as the car was vandalised when he could risk darting his head out to shoot, but he was sure she was not in the frame. He had never known such agony.

  Squatting down, he pressed himself closer against the wheel, hearing the police return with the captured thugs. One of the officers standing over Buzz was using his radio calling up an ambulance. He ended the call as the others passed.

  “How is he?”

  The reply pierced Donovan through the heart.

  “This one’s a goner, I reckon.”

  In a minute the ambulance turned the corner and bumped its way over the cobbles. The paramedics saw the body on the ground and the police standing over it with heads bowed. They did not see the man lying flat under a nearby old van. They did not hear the camera clicking as they lifted the inert shape onto a trolley, slid it into the ambulance and drove off.

  As soon as they had left, Donovan eased himself out, slipped silently along to the end of the lane and bolted in the direction of the newspaper office. Hot tears of anger and regret were burning tracks down his face as he ran. Not for the first time that morning, he hated himself. He hated the thugs, their bigotry and prejudice. Hated them for the murder they had done to that poor harmless frightened boy. But he hated someone else more.

  Most of all he hated Brandon. Hated him for everything he stood for, everything he did and caused to be done. Donovan hated Brandon with a deep loathing.

  *

  The policeman had examined Anne’s ankle, seen the beads of sweat on her pale face and taken her to hospital with a suspected fracture. She was being booked in when a scream announced the arrival of a victim of stabbing. A man, clutching his stomach that was oozing red, was being led in by another policeman, supported on one side by his girlfriend, the screamer. Behind them two more officers were flanking a man with blood all over his face and hands and on his shirt.

  Anne was moved to one side as everyone’s attention turned to the walking wounded. She knew that bleeding cases always received priority. In a weak voice she asked if she could sit down; putting a hand to her head she swayed ominously as if about to faint. A seat was found for her, and the officer who had brought her in was needed as the stabbed man tried to renew the fight with his opponent.

  While this was a welcome entertainment to most people in the waiting area, a nurse skirted them, giving the action a wide berth. Anne caught her attention.

  “I’m afraid I need to go to the loo, but I can’t walk very well.”

  Holding her forehead to conceal the swastika, she revealed her injured ankle. In truth, the pain had now settled to a persistent but only mildly uncomfortable ache.

  “Can you stand?” said the nurse.

  Head down, Anne pushed herself carefully up from the chair. The nurse took her arm and guided her towards the toilets. From his position across the waiting area the policeman saw Anne being led away by a nurse, presumably for treatment.

  Anne insisted she would be able to manage the loo unaided, and the nurse went back to her duties. Anne found she could walk slowly as long as she kept the heel of the damaged foot raised off the ground. The first task was to scrub the swastika off her face, thankful that Donovan’s marker pen was water-soluble. She washed her hands, cleaning off the dirt from lying in the road, all the way up to the tops of her arms. She pulled off the black T-shirt, brushed it with her hand, then turned it inside out. Looking cleaner and more presentable, she refocused on her ankle.

  Rolling up a trouser leg, she grabbed a handful of paper towels, planted her foot in the sink and turned on the cold tap. The shock took her breath away, but she forced herself to keep the ankle under the flow for a full minute, gasping all the while. She dried it off. A final inspection in the mirror. Still not good enough; there was grit and dirt in her hair.

  She used the taps to mix warm water and held her head under the swan’s neck, brushing out dirt with her fingertips. A palmful of handwash from the tip-up dispenser served as shampoo. She rinsed off, pressing her wet hair flat with more paper towels and mouthing because you’re worth it to her reflection in the mirror, she hopped over to the hand-drier and squatted down under the hot air, turning her head from side to side. Soon she was ready to face the world.

  Pushing the window up, Anne perched on the ledge, swung her legs over the sill and eased herself gently to the ground.

  *

  Marnie swept into the casualty department, blinking at the sight of the blood-stained adversaries being restrained by policemen, to the hysterical vocal accompaniment of a woman who was herself spattered with blood.

  She scanned the waiting area seeking out the familiar blonde head, but of Anne there was no sign. Marnie stepped round the fracas, fighting back the desire to slap the screaming woman hard across the face to shut her up. The staff at the reception desk seemed mesmerised by the spectacle until Marnie planted herself in front of them. They refocused on her and listened to her question.

  “I said, have you registered a girl with an injured ankle? Short blonde hair? She may have come in with a police escort in the last half hour.”

  A nurse arrived at the desk and placed a file of notes on the counter top. The receptionist was consulting her papers.

  “No. No-one with an ankle injury here today, with or without police.”

  “You’re sure of that?” Marnie persisted.

  “Yes there was,” the nurse said abruptly to the surprise of her colleagues. “She’s gone to use the loo. I took her there myself not five minutes ago.”

  “Blonde hair, urchin cut, thin girl, black T-shirt and jeans?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Which loo?”

  The nurse pointed. “Down that corridor, second on the left. There’s no rush. She could hardly walk. I’ll go and see if she needs help in a minute.”

  Marnie was on the move. “I’ll go. You’re busy.”

  She walked calmly round the corner and dived for the door. It came as no surprise that Anne was not there. But had she been there? Both cubicles were empty. Marnie touched the hand drier. Warm. One of the two washbasins was wet. She crossed to the frosted glass window and felt a cool draught at the bottom. It was not fully closed. Yanking it open she looked out onto a small parking area. But if Anne had been there, she was gone.

  Calm had returned to the A and E reception area, and Marnie walked quickly through without looking back. The taxi was waiting on double yellow lines opposite the ambulance. Serena and Luther sat grim and wooden with Ralph. Marnie climbed into the front passenger seat and slammed the door.

  “It was her. She was the one the police brought in. She’s got a damaged ankle.”

  Ralph stared forward. “I know.”

  “I think she might’ve used a trick to … what do you mean, you know?”

  Ralph thumbed over his shoulder. “She’s in the back, under the picnic rug. Okay, Colin, let’s drive.”

  *

  The taxi dropped them outside Serena’s house. The street was quiet, a haven of peace after all they had witnessed that morning. Ralph helped Anne from the rear doors. She could now walk reasonably well without assistance. The front door opened before they reached it, and Serena was about to introduce her mother when she realised that ma was distraught, her face wet with tears.

  “They killed the boy,” she sobbed.

  In a state of shock they filed in. The radio was giving live coverage of the turbulent events taking place in the town centre. On the table neatly laid out were plates of sandwiches, bowls of crisps and nuts, bottles of mineral water and fruit juices. Everything remained untouched. Ma left them and went to be with the children playing in the garden. The five sat as if in a trance while the news reports came in.

  … now postponed. The prime minister was whisked away by his aides but not before issuing a strongly-worded statement condemning wh
at he described as ‘anarchist elements in society that seek only the destruction of everything we in Britain hold dear.’ He warned voters of the dangers of turning the country over to any party that relied for support on thugs and hooligans. Garth Brandon, the BFP candidate, retorted that the government was losing control of the country and it needed discipline to ensure that our rights to democratic peaceful protest were not undermined by heavy-handed police tactics.

  “Here we go again,” Ralph murmured. “The same old story.”

  “It makes me so mad,” Serena snarled with gritted teeth.

  A different reporter took up the running.

  Witnesses in the racecourse district of the town are saying they saw a gang of rioters attack a black youth with baseball bats. The witnesses, who saw the event from their windows, testified that they saw the boy being beaten on the ground by men who ran off when police officers arrived on the scene. They heard the police stating that the gang had beaten him to death. This has not yet been formally confirmed.

  Serena held a hand to her mouth. Anne slumped in a chair. Marnie leaned across to her.

  “Is that what happened?”

  “I think so … couldn’t see everything. I was lying under a van. I wish I could’ve done something to gain them more time to get away.”

  “You were very brave,” said Luther. He put a hand on her shoulder.

  “No I wasn’t. I just couldn’t run, had to think of something on the spot. I was scared stiff.”

  “No-one could’ve done more than you did, Anne,” Marnie said softly.

  … but a spokesman for the BFP said there was no evidence or reliable eye witnesses to prove who carried out the attack. He pointed out that some unscrupulous people were using the democratic protests as a smokescreen to cover up gang violence between factions within what he described as immigrant communities. Garth Brandon, the candidate at the centre of the row over police brutality, has demanded protection from the authorities. A government spokesman pointed out that Brandon had his own private army, a point later denied by the BFP leader who insisted that he had no personal bodyguards.

  Serena’s mother returned unnoticed and began handing round sandwiches to the visitors. She had spent an hour preparing them that morning, and they were delicious. The guests accepted them and ate out of politeness. No-one tasted anything.

  *

  Donovan walked quickly away from the newspaper offices where he had handed in the film for processing. His head was bent forward and he was deep in thought, a plan forming in his mind. He made his way across town, sometimes forced into taking a long way round to avoid marauding New Force gangs. Eventually he reached the school and, standing on the corner, he watched the comings and goings of the scouts as they prepared lunch in the largest of the tents under the gently waving Union flag.

  Biding his time, he waited until all attention was fixed on organising the meal, then he emerged from concealment to cross the road and kneel beside Marnie’s Discovery. Pretending to tie his shoe laces, he reached under the front wheel arch and groped for the metal box containing the spare keys. In seconds he was in the driving seat with the engine running. No-one seemed to be paying any attention. He engaged first gear and pulled away.

  *

  “Accident and Emergency, please.”

  “One moment.”

  The delay was more than one moment. Serena was ready to burst when the voice cut in.

  “A and E nurses’ station.” It was an abrupt greeting from a harassed voice.

  “I’m phoning to enquire about a boy admitted this morning. He’d been attacked by men with baseball bats.”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “Well no, not actually, but –”

  “Sorry we cannot give any information except to members of the family.”

  “I realise that but these are exceptional circumstances and –”

  “We only have exceptional circumstances. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

  “But the boy may have been killed!” Serena was almost shouting.

  “Then you should contact the police with any information you have. I have to go, sorry.”

  Serena breathed out audibly. Marnie refrained from telling her she had told her so.

  “So …” Luther broke into the silence. “Is there anything we can do this afternoon?”

  Ralph reached over and put his plate on Serena’s dining table. “Two options, I suppose. We either go home and get on with business as usual, or we stay in town.”

  “And do what?” Serena sounded as if she wanted an argument.

  “That’s the question.” Ralph kept his voice quiet. “I for one would find it hard to get on with my normal work. I’d be thinking all the time about the riots and that poor boy.”

  “Me too,” said Luther.

  Serena’s eyes blazed. “Well I’m not prepared to just –”

  “Serena.” Marnie’s voice was low but firm. “There’s no way we’re going back to the centre. Forget it. The best we can do is keep up with what’s going on by following the radio reports.”

  “But –”

  “We can’t attack New Force. We can’t go to the hospital and do any good. That doesn’t leave us many other options.”

  “So you think we should just sit here and twiddle our thumbs while the battle goes on out there?”

  “No. I think we should watch and plan, unless anyone has any better ideas?”

  “And worry,” Anne joined in.

  Ralph smiled across at her. “Good point. We’ll all be doing that,” he said gently.

  They all smiled.

  “About anything in particular?” Marnie asked, “Or just a general worry?”

  “You all seem to be forgetting Donovan. We don’t know what happened to him.”

  Every smile vanished.

  *

  He could not take the risk of going into Knightly St John by the usual roads. Marnie’s Discovery was too well-known, and he had no wish to implicate her in any way in his actions. Using the road atlas, Donovan found a cross-country route, hopping from village to village, that would lead him to the top of the field track without going down the high street.

  The journey took longer but it was a necessary compromise. He steered for the back of the outbuildings, leaving the track and heading down the hill out of sight of the rooftops of the farmhouse where a builder might spot him. He prayed that no-one would be at home and left the car tucked under the trees at the edge of the spinney. Bent double, he hurried through, and hid behind a clump of bushes from where he could observe the boats. They were unoccupied, the docking area deserted.

  When something touched his leg he almost cried out. Looking down, he met the steady amber gaze of a sturdy black cat. He put a finger to his lips and spoke softly.

  “Not a word, Dolly. Okay? Our secret. Bleib stumm, Katze!”

  The cat blinked twice and, impressed with her command of German, Donovan set off over the bridge towards X O 2. On board in stuffy heat, he went purposefully about his business, first checking that all windows and doors were secure. Tearing off his dirty clothes he quickly showered before changing into a fresh set that he took carefully from the wardrobe. He rummaged in drawers for the things he needed and placed them in his bag. The last items were a light grey cotton sweater that he folded carefully and a red baseball cap that he tucked in beside it. Finally he carried the mountain bike out onto the towpath, probably for the last time, re-set the intruder alarm and locked up.

  He rode back to the Discovery, lowered the rear seats to make a cargo platform and loaded in the bike. He carefully laid his shoulder bag on the passenger seat and started the engine. Taking the same route up the hill and out of the village, he was relieved not to meet any other vehicles on his way or pass anyone who might later be able to testify that they had seen either him or Marnie’s car that afternoon.

  *

  The atmosphere in Serena’s dining room made Marnie understand the meaning of the expression, pent-up fr
ustration. They sat listening to the local radio reports on the BBC. The station manager had abandoned the usual schedule and thrown everything into the events that were engulfing Northampton. The county town, in its long history, had experienced nothing comparable since the riots in support of the barons against King Henry III in the thirteenth century.

  As the afternoon dragged by and the reports came in, the group was on an emotional roller-coaster ride. The good news was that the minority ethnic communities had the wisdom to keep out of harm’s way, and the indigenous British population would have nothing to do with the demonstrators, either by joining them or by attacking them and making matters worse. Reports stressed that all involved in smashing shop windows and wrecking bus shelters were outsiders brought in especially to make trouble.

  The town held its breath, waiting to see what would be left when the dust eventually settled. The pretty tram shelter on the corner of the racecourse, where Buzz had wanted to hide, was reduced to a battered heap of twisted metal. The statue of a famous Victorian MP had been toppled from its plinth, and the charming Guildhall had been sprayed with racist slogans. The emergency services had their resources stretched to the limit as fires were started all over town. But the line held, courage did not falter, and as the afternoon wore on, hope began to grow that normal life would one day return.

  The bad news was that the invading army was fanning out, going from street to street in search of victims. Reports came in that an Asian shop assistant, eighteen years old, had been dragged from her work and only saved from beating and rape by the timely arrival of a carload of policemen. In the almost-deserted market square a stall specialising in sari material had been overturned and set on fire. A similar fate was dealt to a stall that sold West Indian fruit and vegetables, the protesting owner beaten up but dragged to safety by his fellow white stallholders who drove off the attackers.