Red Crystal (22 page)

Almost immediately he realized he was too late. The wounded man and his two bearers had already passed between the groups of uniformed men, and through the line of mounted men now advancing on the crowd. The strange group was out into the open. Already, a photographer on a car top had her camera trained on them.

Nick followed, dodging through the line. He was stopped by a mounted man but, having identified himself, managed to squeeze between two horses without getting a truncheon on his head.

He was far, far too late.

Ahead, Black Beard and Reardon were setting Wheatfield down on the pavement and leaning him back against the railings, revealing a face bright scarlet with blood. The girl photographer had come down from the car and was taking shots from a variety of angles.

Nick groaned. He couldn’t possibly grab Wheatfield now: it would look even worse than it undoubtedly looked already. Also, he would get his face in the paper, and that would be horribly public.

But the others were a different matter. However, he would need help. Panting, he ran up to a group of three coppers and, showing his warrant card, led them back to where Wheatfield lay.

As they approached, Nick felt his heart sink. Reardon and Black Beard had disappeared. He looked everywhere, but there was no sign of them.

As for Wheatfield, he was the centre of a veritable circus of attention. Five or six photographers and a TV news crew were all vying for the best shot of the blood pouring down Wheatfield’s smashed and agonized face.

Terrific theatre. Wonderful television.

Bitterly, Nick watched as the newsmen carefully recorded Wheatfield being lifted gently on to a stretcher, Wheatfield moaning loudly, Wheatfield being attended by a doctor who looked sufficiently worried to suggest that Wheatfield was somewhere between the critical list and death.

Someone should have provided hankies.

As Wheatfield’s stretcher disappeared into an ambulance, Nick cast around again desperately. Where
had
the other two gone?

Suddenly he had a glimpse. A head of red hair in the distance, down a side street, walking jauntily past a police van.

Reardon.

Nick yelled to the coppers, ‘There! The red hair!’ And they pounded off at the run.

Nick ran up the steps of a house and, hoisting himself up on the railings, searched the crowd.

The police line had dissolved into a series of violent skirmishes, with horses pressing hard into the remains of the crowd. At the rear, many of the demonstrators were trying to escape down Montague Street, back the way they had come.

No sign of Black Beard … And yet he
must
have gone that way.

Nick dropped to the ground and loped towards the police line. A gap opened up and he dived through it. Dodging past a group of fighting police and students, he forced himself back through the crowd until he came to the beginning of Montague Street.

He paused on the corner of the street and hoisted himself up on the railings again. He watched the demonstrators leaving the square. Nothing. He examined the last few groups still facing the police. No sign.

He’d lost him.

What a hell of a day.

Out of habit, he kept an eye on the crowd, looking for other faces, but saw none he recognized.

The crowd was quietening down at last, the police were pressing forward and forcing more and more demonstrators out of the square.

Across the street there were groups of demonstrators who had retreated into doorways or, like Nick, had climbed up on railings and steps to watch the action. Nick cast his eyes over them for perhaps the fifth time. And nearly fell off his perch.

He stared in disbelief.

Black Beard.

Moving out of a doorway
.

He must have been there all the time, but hidden from view.

Right, thought Nick. This time I’ve got you.

He jumped to the ground and pushed his way through the crowd, tense with excitement, keeping his bearings, working out the right angle to cut Black Beard off …

He caught a glimpse of the black hair. Further ahead than he’d thought.

He quickened his pace to close the distance. A last group of people were in his way. He pushed violently past them.

Almost there.

A couple more strides.

Yes!
Got you now
.

Triumphantly, he reached for Black Beard’s arm.

Then, in a split second of incredulity, Nick realized everything was going dreadfully wrong.

An enormous weight was driving into him from behind and crashing him to the ground. He kicked out and, wriggling violently, managed to stagger to his knees. But his arm was suddenly forced half-way up his back in a textbook arm lock. Nick twisted his head and dimly took in the sight of an SPG man with a bloody nose …

Nick began to yell ‘Special Branch – ’ when something with the solidity of a sledge-hammer smashed into his head and sent his cheek grinding into the road.

As the world faded in a nauseating storm of blinding lights, Nick thought hazily: What a bloody shambles.

Victoria sat on the doorstep and had a good cry. After a while she felt better and dried her eyes on her sleeve. Still trembling she lifted her skirt to examine the red blotches and grazes that covered her legs. Some patches were swollen and very tender. She moved her shoulder and winced – something strained. A bruise on the ribs, too. And then her eye – a bump above and a big swelling below.

It could have been worse. She might have broken something. She could have been dead. She gave a laugh half-way between a giggle and a sob, then, realizing she was getting mildly hysterical, forced herself to calm down.

Someone – she didn’t know who – had brought her to this side street. In the midst of the terrible crush the feet had suddenly stopped bumping and kicking, and somehow a space had opened up and some kind people had reached down to pull her to her feet. A man – she hadn’t even seen his face – had got an arm round her waist and led her clear. He’d left her here in this doorway, when – ten minutes ago? She’d lost all track of time.

‘You okay? Do you need an ambulance or something?’

She looked up. Curious faces stared at her, standing a little back, concerned but distant.

She said quickly, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ and they left, hurrying on. Many people were walking quickly past, escaping the pandemonium in the square. Perhaps she should get away too.

Shakily she gathered herself together. She brushed some of the dirt off her skirt and tried unsuccessfully to tie up a broken strap on her sandal.

Then she put her hand to her waist.

Her bag. It had gone. It had been tied round her waist.

Not much money. Two pounds. But her
keys
. Then she remembered that the caretaker would probably be able to let her into the flat.

Just no money then. No way of getting anywhere.

A taxi and write an IOU? Hardly: no cabbie would trust her looking like this. Her sister? No, Diana was away for the weekend.

She got to her feet, almost in tears again.

People were still streaming past, moving fast, talking angrily, not looking her way. She moved tentatively forward, plucking up courage to ask someone for a lift, when she stopped dead, unable to believe her luck.

‘Emilio!’

He was quite close, walking purposefully down the centre of the street with his head down. She called again, louder, but he didn’t hear. She was sure it was him.

She went after him, running painfully, almost tripping over her loose sandal. Eventually she caught up with him and touched his shoulder. ‘Emilio!’

He spun round, looking defensive and angry.

She said quickly, ‘It’s me. From the meeting. Please – I’ve lost my money. I was wondering – could you lend me some …’ She trailed off under the blank incomprehension of his gaze.

His eyes flicked past her, back towards the square, and then he seemed to focus on her for the first time and, seeing the state of her, raised his eyebrows. He started to walk on, simultaneously reaching into his pocket, and handed her a five-pound note. She limped along beside him, and exclaimed, ‘This is too much. Really. Two pounds – one – would be plenty.’

He didn’t reply. Putting in a couple of extra steps to keep up, she gasped, ‘How can I repay you? Is there somewhere I can find you?’

He gave a minute shake of the head and strode on. After a few moments he stopped abruptly. ‘I must go now. Sorry.’ He repeated, ‘
Sorry
,’ in a tone somewhere between impatience and regret.

She insisted, ‘Please – I must repay you. If I can’t contact you, then will
you
find me, Victoria Danby, 53 Moscow Road.’

‘Danby. Moscow Road,’ he repeated vaguely, then turned on his heel and was gone.

Victoria walked slowly away. The effects of the shock were beginning to wear off, leaving her exhausted and horribly empty.

The young man in the processing lab was very quick and Gabriele had the contacts in front of her in forty minutes. She spread them out on the viewing table and peered at them with a magnifying glass. Occasionally she marked the promising shots with the chinagraph pencil. Then she went over them again.

The shots of Max sitting on the pavement had come out well – lots of blood and agony and tragedy. But good as they were, these shots weren’t vital – there had been enough photographers around to ensure that similar pictures would appear in every newspaper.

It was the earlier shots from the car roof that were essential. The picture had to contain a policeman with his baton raised over a clearly identifiable Max. She had got one of a raised baton all right, the policeman in a wonderfully aggressive stance over a cowering Max. But maddeningly, Max’s face was blurred. Obviously the shutter speed had been too slow.

She drew a ring round the face and, taking the contacts through to the young technician, asked him to blow up all the pictures she had marked and to see if he could get more out of the ringed face.

It was four. The Sundays would be setting up their front pages. Time to get things moving. She telephoned Stan Geddes at the photo-news agency. Someone offered to take a message, but she insisted on talking to Stan. When he eventually came to the phone he sounded harassed.

She said briefly, ‘I got some good shots of the demonstration this afternoon. I think a lot of people will be interested—’

‘Love, there’s only one problem,’ interjected Stan’s voice, ‘the whole of Fleet Street was there and I think you’ll find they’re all running their own pics.’

‘But they don’t have what I have,’ said Gabriele confidently. ‘There was a demonstrator seriously injured, and I’ve got a picture of him being beaten up by the police.’

‘Actually being beaten?’ Stan’s voice was suddenly loaded with interest. ‘Where are you?’ She gave him the name of the photo lab and he promised to call right back.

The young technician came out of the darkroom with the first batch of eight-by-tens. ‘Just to be going on with,’ he explained. Gabriele looked rapidly through them.
Much
better now they were blown up. She spread them out in sequence: Max being pulled from the crowd, Max falling to the ground, Max with the raised baton high above his head, and finally a terrific shot of the riot policeman bringing the baton down on to either Max’s back or head – it was difficult to tell just which. And Max’s face, though blurred, was clearly identifiable.

Gabriele clenched her fists in a small gesture of triumph. The young technician smiled.

A door opened and she glanced round to see Giorgio coming in. ‘
There
you are!’ she exclaimed angrily. ‘God, I could – ’ Aware of the young technician, she prevented herself from saying what was on her mind. Instead she asked harshly, ‘Have you got the car right outside? We’ll have to get these over to the papers right now.’

Giorgio regarded her sullenly and didn’t reply. She was about to demand an answer when she was called to the phone. It was Geddes. ‘The
Sunday Times
is interested in an exclusive,’ he began.

‘No exclusives.’

‘Why the hell not!’ Geddes exclaimed. ‘It’s worth
money
, for Christ’s sake.’

‘No exclusive,’ Gabriele insisted. ‘I want you to offer the pictures to everyone.’

Geddes sighed. ‘Blimey. If you insist. Though the total fees won’t add up to an exclusive … But anyway, the
Sunday Times
is interested, although it may not be front-page stuff.’

A
frisson
of anger shot up Gabriele’s spine. ‘Why not?’

‘Well, they’ve got to see the pics, of course.’

She relaxed. ‘They’ll put them on the front page, don’t worry.’

She put the phone down, and seeing that the young man had gone back into the darkroom, advanced on Giorgio. She could hardly contain her anger. ‘You nearly
killed
Max, you bloody idiot! What did you think you were doing? What came over you? All that was necessary was a little
blood
. And you go and mangle his face up! You—’

‘He is not badly hurt.’

‘Did you
see
him? He was badly hurt all right! You must have really hit him hard. No control. You’ve got no
control
, you bastard!’

Almost immediately she realized she had gone too far. Giorgio’s face had gone pale with rage. He said very quietly, ‘You cannot have it both ways.’

Then, abruptly, he turned on his heel and was gone. Thinking fleetingly of the car and the importance of getting the pictures to the agency quickly, she nearly called him back. But she was damned if she was going to chase after him and apologize. She would rather take a cab.

Victoria knocked back another whisky and felt much better. Slowly and rather stiffly she stripped off her clothes and examined her body. She was going to have some terrific bruises. Who needed body paint when your body was a work of art?

She wrapped herself in a bathrobe and went into the bathroom which led directly off the bedroom. Carefully avoiding her reflection in the mirror – she didn’t want to make herself cry – she turned on the hot tap. The gas geyser hissed and popped and refused to light. She bashed it with her hand to no effect and realized the pilot light had gone out. She went in search of a match and, while passing the bottle, took another small nip of whisky. Marvellously warming.