Avalon (50 page)

“This nation needs the monarchy — perhaps now more than ever before,” James declared.

“We don’t need
you
!” someone shouted.

“My friend,” said James, “I am precisely the one you need. You need me because I am all that stands between us and a system of government which will effectively obliterate the last vestiges of British sovereignty. Once the monarchy is gone, there will be nothing to prevent the proliferation of parliamentary power — or its escalating abuse.”

The words were still on his lips when James felt a sudden twinge between his shoulder blades — a piercing ache so sharp he thought he’d been stabbed. Never had the
fiosachd
come upon him with such force.

The flesh on the back of his neck writhed. He turned quickly and scanned the crowd. He saw a woman with striking red hair pushing through the crush of people. He had but a fleeting glimpse of her face as, in the heightened awareness of the
fiosachd
, darkness descended like a cloud, and he was overwhelmed by a feeling of fearful oppression. Into his mind flashed the image of blood pooling in the street, and he heard as in a dream the droning whine of sirens and the screams of the people as they fled.

He looked out on the unsuspecting crowd and felt a crushing weight settle upon his chest. Death was here.

“Ah, well,” James concluded lamely, “I guess that’s all I have to say right now.”

Stepping quickly down from the speaker’s box, he crossed to where Cal and Jenny were standing. She saw the set of his jaw and asked, “What’s wrong, Why did you stop?”

“Where’s Rhys?”

“He’s waiting with the car,” replied Cal. “Why?”

“There’s trouble.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get Rhys on the mobile. Tell him to get over here fast. Then follow me.”

“What about Jenny?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Jenny told him. “I can take care of myself.”

“Just get hold of Rhys,” said James, “and then follow me!”

Even as he spoke, James became aware of a movement in the crowd — like a ripple in a stream as water flows around an obstacle. He caught a glimpse of black leather and the cold metallic glint of chain and, emerging from the close-gathered throng, a man dressed in black tee shirt and jeans, his feet laced into heavy steel-toed bovver boots. His head was shaved completely, and he had a black tattoo of a dagger on the side of his neck. A painted red swastika glistened on his forehead like a wound.

More thugs pressed in behind the first; each with a length of pipe or a section of chain. Their shaved heads and tattooed faces gave them the look of barbarians of another age.

Embries, ever alert to the transient moods of every situation, appeared and stepped quickly to James’ side. “You’ve seen something.”

“Skinheads — they’ve come to disrupt things,” James replied. “Get the police over here
now
.” James turned and made to step back onto the box when a brick smashed on the pavement at his feet.

Another brick struck the side of the soapbox. This one was accompanied by a shout: “Death to the King!”

The crowd gave a shudder and edged back in alarm.

The first of the gang had almost reached the barrier. People were shoving back, trying to get out of the way. Moving towards the commotion, James saw three skinheads climb over the barricade and step into the cleared zone. The two nearest police constables were running to stop them. As the bobbies approached, the three intruders suddenly squatted down; two more rose from the crowd behind them and let fly with bricks. One missile caught the foremost policeman full in the face; his legs buckled and he toppled backward onto the pavement. His partner was struck in the chest and went down; he lay writhing and clutching his heart. Instantly, the nearest thug was on the wounded officer, kicking him and beating him with a length of lead pipe.

“You’re mine, friend,” James growled and started for the fray.

“James, wait!” Jenny shouted as the King darted to the injured man’s defense.

James reached the injured policeman just as his attacker landed an expert kick in the officer’s stomach. When the thug drew back his boot to launch a kick at the bobbie’s unprotected throat, James seized the skinhead’s ankle from behind and yanked it hard up towards the small of his back, throwing him forward. His face struck the pavement; and he came up gasping and spluttering like a crimson geyser, blood spurting from his nose and mouth. James applied a firm tap to the base of his skull, and he subsided with a groan.

The two remaining skinheads saw their chance and advanced. The first lunged clumsily, swinging at James’ head with a length of pipe. James easily sidestepped the blow, took hold of the thug’s arm as it swung past, and gave it a sharp downward yank. The thug sprawled forward onto his hands and knees, and the pipe went spinning out of his grasp.

Before James could remove him from the fight, however, the second was joined by another. James did not wait for them to make the first move but met them on the run, taking the nearest head-on. The skinhead had a meter of rusty chain in one hand and a lead pipe in the other, so James aimed a swift kick at his kneecap. The ruffian shrieked in pain and dropped the pipe to grab his leg. His descending chin met James’ knee on the ascent, and the attacker’s mouth snapped shut with a teeth-shattering clack.

The bruiser’s companion gave a shout and loosed a wild roundhouse with his chain — which James easily ducked, coming up with a fist under the hood’s ribcage, driving the air from his lungs. He gasped for breath, and James seized his throat, closing off his windpipe. The skinhead’s eyes bugged out and his mouth gaped open for breath, but James held him just a little longer and then shoved him into the path of two more skinheads, who had darted into the walkway behind him. One tripped over his gasping partner, forcing the other to dodge awkwardly.

James went for the awkward dodger first, stiff-arming him in the chest as he tried to charge. Already off balance, his feet flew out from under him and he smacked the street with his backside. James heard a crunch that might have been his spine giving way, and the bully fainted.

James stepped back, looking for the police and wondering why they were so slow in responding to the situation. He was starting back towards the injured constables when someone shouted, “Behind you!”

He pivoted, jerking his head from the path of a downward arcing section of pipe, taking the blow on his shoulder. The pain brought tears to his eyes, and he fell onto his side and tried to roll away. The skinhead gave a wild shriek of triumph and leaped forward. James saw the pipe swing up into the air, and threw his arms over his head to protect his skull.

As the pipe started down, however, a strange thing happened. The troublemaker’s arm seemed to fold inward upon itself — as if he had suddenly developed a second elbow in the middle of his forearm. The lead pipe spun with a dull clank to the ground as the bully grabbed his broken arm, his face alive with wonder. There came a meaty thwack, and the skinhead’s eyes bulged with pain; he fell, clutching his shin, a curse between his teeth.

James lowered his hands and saw Jenny with her fist clenched tight around a section of pipe. She stood over the thug, breathing hard, silently daring him to get up. Cal scrambled up behind her and stooped down to help James to his feet. “Man, can we no’ take you anywhere?” he said.

“Where is the riot squad when you need them?” asked James, rubbing his throbbing shoulder.

The skinheads who had come through the barricade were hugging the pavement. “That looks like the lot,” Jenny observed with relief.

“Maybe we should get you two to the car,” said Cal.

“Let’s see to these injured officers first,” James replied, turning to the bobbies on the ground. The first was still out cold; the second had stopped writhing, but his face was ashen, and he was having difficulty breathing. “Rest easy,” James told him, kneeling down beside him. “We’ll get some help over here right away.”

From somewhere beyond the barricade, there came a shout to clear the way. “Over here!” shouted Cal, waving his arms. “Get an ambulance!”

Policemen were trying to clear a path. The crowd, like an ocean wave, had recoiled upon itself during the attack; now it was surging again and flowing confusedly around the scene of the fight. From the speaker’s box, Embries called on everyone to remain calm. There had been an incident, he said, but it was over now. Everything would soon be back to normal if everyone would just remain calm and allow the police to do their jobs.

And then James heard sobbing: desperate, uncontrollable. Instinctively, he moved towards the sound. Jenny started after him. “Stay with Cal,” he told her.

“No way,” Jenny said, laying her hand gently on his injured shoulder.

As she spoke, an image flashed into James’ mind: a dark-haired young woman dressed in gleaming mail, a small round shield at her breast and a slender spear in her hand. There was sweat on her brow and grime on her cheek as she regarded him with amused admiration.

“Suit yourself,” James relented. “Follow me.”

They waded into the crowd together. A number of people had been knocked down when those in the front had tried to retreat. Many of them were still on the ground, dazed and frightened as the onlookers streamed around them. There was a young woman on her knees beside a mangled baby stroller. She was bleeding from a cut on her cheek, and her chin was bruised.

As James reached the young woman, he saw Rhys’ head and shoulders struggling through the mass of people. “Rhys! This way!” James shouted. Kneeling beside her, he said, “Can you stand? Here, let’s get you on your feet.”

Rhys was beside them a second later, and together they lifted the woman to her feet. “That’s better,” Jenny soothed, trying to comfort her. “Are you hurt?”

The woman stared at them with terrified eyes. Clutching at Jenny’s sleeve, she wailed, “My baby! I can’t find my baby!”

“We’ll find your child,” James said. “What’s the name?”

“Hannah.” The woman sobbed, trying to get control of herself. “She’s only three. She’s wearing a red jacket. Please —”

James stood and made a quick survey of the area, but could see no toddler. There were so many people milling about that it was difficult to see. “We’ll circle the area,” he told Rhys. “You go left, and I’ll go right.”

“She has a yellow woolly hat,” called the mother as they started away.

The search was made more difficult because many people, recognizing James, stopped in his path and wanted to shake hands or accost him. “We’re looking for a lost child,” he told them, when they tried to greet him. “Please help us find her.”

By the time they completed the first circuit, he had recruited six or so other searchers, but had not found the little girl.

“Go around again,” James told Rhys. “Make the circle wider this time.”

“Your Majesty!” called a fresh-faced police constable as he jogged towards the King. “We can take it from here. Allow us to escort you to safety, sir.”

“I’ll go when the little girl is safe,” James replied. “Help us search.”

Within moments, the area was ringing with shouts of “Hannah! Where are you, Hannah?”

Halfway around the second pass, James met Cal, and quickly explained who they were looking for. “Tricky, these little’uns — they can get around faster than you’d think.”

“Well, find her then — if you know so much,” James snapped, casting a quick look back at the mother leaning in distressed immobility against Jenny. Cal squatted down and gazed around at roughly the eye level of a three-year-old toddler. “There!” he said. “That’s where I would go if I was a bairn on the loose.”

James looked where he was pointing and saw a cluster of helium balloons fifteen or twenty meters away. The vendor had probably abandoned them in the stampede and, tethered by their strings to a weight, they were bumping along the street. Cal and James started for the place together, sidestepping the glad-handers and reporters; they had covered half the distance when James caught a glimpse of a small red figure a few yards ahead. “There she is!”

“Got her,” said Cal.

Suddenly, the crowd was streaming around them, and James saw why: five more skinheads had appeared on the scene; dressed in black jeans and leather jackets, the two leading the group had dogs on the end of heavy chains. The rest carried cricket bats and sections of pipe.

James took one look at the dogs and their vile, flat, brown, beady-eyed heads, thick necks, bow legs, and bulging haunches, and his stomach tightened with disgust. “God help us,” he muttered. “They’ve got pit bulls.”

“Cursed beasts,” spat Cal. “Damn them all.”

The horrified crowd scattered in every direction. People fled to either side, screaming, shouting, desperate to get out of the way of the advancing skinheads and their snarling dogs.

Suddenly, as if it had been carefully choreographed and scripted, it was Cal and James on one side of a small clearing, and the hoodlums with their pit bulls on the other — and Hannah between them. Even before the thugs’ hands moved to the collars of their dogs, James knew what was going to happen. The horrified crowd moaned as little Hannah caught sight of the dogs and headed straight for them.

The pit bulls saw the toddler, too, and the instant they were loosed, went for her. James put his head down and ran for all he was worth; Cal loosed a whoop to distract the dogs, and raced after him.

The pit bulls charged ahead like low-flying cannonballs. Hannah, oblivious of the danger, reached out her tiny hands and stumbled forward on unsteady legs as the dogs sped nearer.

The first dog loosed a vicious, slavering growl and dove headlong for the infant. James saw the jaws open… the glimmer of white teeth slashing through the air….

At full stretch he lunged, snagging the hem of the child’s red coat. His fingers caught the soft cloth, and he jerked the infant up off the street as the dog’s teeth snagged her sleeve. The animal’s head came up as James lifted the little girl, so he kicked out at the repugnant creature’s throat and managed to get it to release its hold. The dog fell back with shreds of red cloth hanging from its mouth.