Riot Act (44 page)

His thin shoulders shook as he wept for what seemed like a long time. Sean had let the end of the torch dip, so that the beam hit the cellar wall, but in the light reflected back I could see the sorrow in his face, and the anger.

I touched his shoulder, feeling like an unwelcome intruder into their grief.

“We need to move,” I said.

He was still for a moment, then he nodded, gently levering Roger back so he could look into his face.

“Are you ready to get out of here, kid?”

The boy nodded mutely, the fight gone out of him. I led the way up the cellar steps to find that Madeleine was using her Zippo to light the stubs of some old candles she’d found. She gave Roger a big smile, and a hug too, which was pretty brave of her considering how rancid he smelt.

We used the flickering light to strip off the kid’s ragged sweatshirt so we could put him into the body armour we’d brought for him. Roger let us undress him, pliant, like a doll.

He barely made a sound as his sleeve was peeled away and the top of a big scab from a deep abrasion on his forearm came with it. The wound was maybe a couple of days old. It hadn’t been treated, and had started to heal, after a fashion, into the material.

“How did this happen?” Sean asked him.

Roger stared at his arm as if he’d never seen it before. “Oh. That,” he said slowly. He shrugged. “They knocked me off the bike.” His voice was disconnected, as though he was reporting a dull incident that had happened to someone else.

Sean tightened the Velcro straps on the body armour without trusting himself to speak. He fed Roger’s head and arms back into his sweatshirt, trying to keep the oozing arm away from the sleeve.

We were about to move out when the sound of shouting and the clatter of movement outside had us all freezing in our tracks. Sean tiptoed to the back door and disappeared briefly and silently into the yard. He was back a few moments later.

“Is that O’Bryan’s lot?” I demanded in an urgent whisper.

“Not unless he’s learned to speak Gujarati,” he said. “They’re just kids, but I’m not prepared to risk getting into a confrontation. We’ll hold tight until they’ve gone.”

Madeleine produced half a bar of chocolate – from where I’m not entirely sure – and handed it over to Roger. The boy tore at the wrapping and devoured it like he hadn’t eaten for days. The sugar hit seemed to put some animation back into him, some life back behind his eyes.

“What happened to Nasir, Rog?” Sean asked him then.

“O’Bryan shot him,” Roger said tonelessly, licking his fingers when he was done, and the inside of the wrapper, too. “We had to go back and report. You know – after.” His eyes skated over me briefly, then fell away. “Nas said he’d talk to Mr O’Bryan, but I was scared. He’d tried to talk to him before, when Aqueel took—”

He broke off again, aware that he’d said too much, but Sean nodded encouragingly. “We know all about Aqueel and the others breaking into O’Bryan’s car. What did he take?”

“I’m not sure. Nas never showed it to me. He just said he knew it had come from one of the robberies. Said he could use it to get us off the hook, but Mr O’Bryan just laughed at him and said he knew Nas’d been about to make trouble because
she’d
told him.”

He waved a hand in my direction. There was an accusing note in his voice that I couldn’t deny. After all, I had indeed told O’Bryan about that, too, the first day he’d come to see me.

Guilt walked cold fingers into my chest cavity and clutched at my heart. Again, I remembered Nasir’s outburst that day in the back garden, and realised now why he’d been so vehement.

Roger shrugged and went on. “Anyway, Mr O’Bryan said he couldn’t prove anything. And if Nas did try to stir it he’d make sure we all went down. That’s when he started getting nasty about Ursula.”

“So what happened this time, when Nasir went to talk to O’Bryan after the shooting?”

Roger swallowed, as though the chocolate he’d wolfed was now making him sick. “Mr O’Bryan’s got this barn on the road out to Glasson where he keeps his classic cars. He told Nas to meet him there. I went with him, but Nas told me to wait outside. He was cool with it, you know, thought he could reason with him, get us another chance.”

Another chance.

My God, I thought. They were going to have
another
go at killing me. As if that first time at the gym wasn’t enough.

“What went wrong?” Sean asked, and I opened my mouth to say, “They missed,” when I realised we were at cross-purposes. I closed it again, and let Roger go on with his story.

“They were ages in there,” he said now, shivering so hard that Sean slipped out of his jacket and put it onto the boy. He had to turn the sleeves up three times before his fingers showed at the end of them. “I wanted to know what they were saying, so I found a little window, round the back, and I looked in. I couldn’t really hear, but Mr O’Bryan was ranting at him, I could tell. Then he just grabbed the gun off Nas and shot him with it.”

His eyes had lost immediate focus, seeing again in his mind’s eye the argument, and the shooting. He must have seen it over and over, bound up in the torment of knowing that nothing he did or said could call it back, or cancel it out, or change the outcome. I’d been locked in a similar little cul-de-sac of hell myself, and I could recognise the signs.

“Nas went down screaming,” Roger whispered. “Even through the glass and the walls I could hear him. And Mr O’Bryan just stood there, and watched him lying on the ground, writhing and screaming.”

He turned his face up to Sean’s, and the candlelight showed that he was crying again. “And then Nas didn’t scream any more. And I ran away. I didn’t help him. I didn’t even
try!”

“There wasn’t anything you could have done, Rog,” Sean told him quietly. “If you’d tried, he would have killed you, too.”

Roger wiped his nose on the back of his hand, nodded, but it was a desultory kind of nod. The kind that carries no real conviction. I could see it being a long time before he was going to be able to look in the mirror and not see the face of a coward staring back at him. Some people never managed that leap, never made it back.

Friday had started to pace and whine, making eyes towards the way out as if he was the one wearing a wristwatch. Taking the hint, we checked the back alley and found it was clear. Madeleine snuffed out the candles and we headed for the door.

We’d just gone through it and out into the back yard when the thump and crack of a tremendous explosion rippled through the air like someone had let off a giant petrol bomb in the next street.

Which, in a sense, they had.

We looked upwards, seeing a tongue of flame licking at the clouds over the rooftops of the houses, close by, and heard the patter of fallout on the slates. Some of it landed too close for comfort.

“What the hell was that?” Madeleine demanded.

I glanced at Sean. “At a guess?” I said. “That was the No Claims Bonus on your motor insurance.”

Sean turned, grabbing Roger’s shoulders. “Get out into the rubble and hide,” he told him. “Don’t come out until I come and get you. Understand?”

Roger looked about to argue, as stubborn as his brother, but Sean didn’t have the time or the patience for a long and involved dialogue. “You’re a vital witness, Rog,” he said. “If they get hold of you they’ll kill you and all this will have been for nothing. Go on, get out of here!”

This time Roger did as he was told. We already knew he’d have made a world-class sprinter, given the opportunity. If the way he scaled the nearest pile of shifting stones was anything to go by, he hadn’t lost much of his form.

The rest of us walked round the end of the buildings, carefully skirted the rubble, and were faced with the conflagration that had once been Sean’s Nissan. He gave it a single, regretful glance, and moved on.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Fox,” said a cool voice from the shadows, and three figures stepped forwards into the pagan circle of light from the fire.

Somehow, I knew who they were before I saw their faces clearly.

West was in the centre, with Harlow and Drummond flanking him. Garton-Jones’s men. They advanced with an arrogant confidence that only faltered slightly when they saw the dog.

Friday had started to growl as soon as he’d heard West’s voice, pulling his lips back to emphasise his teeth. Even his neck seemed thicker, his collar going tight around the engorged muscles.

“If you’ve come to burn the boy, you’re too late,” Sean said. “He’s gone.”

“He won’t get far,” West said, almost lazily. He looked at the burning Patrol with the satisfaction of someone admiring their own handiwork. “After all, your transport seems to be out of action. I don’t think the RAC will be able to fix that by the side of the road, will they?”

As if at some unspoken signal, Harlow and Drummond started towards us then, closing in on Madeleine and me. Sean had said that Madeleine wasn’t a field agent, hadn’t had the training, but I just had time to see her let out a dreadful cry and charge forwards to meet Harlow head on. Then my attention was lost in my own problems.

Drummond launched in with a crafty look on his face. We’d crossed swords before and he’d made the mistake of not taking me seriously. This time, his face said, he was more than ready for anything I might throw at him.

Well, almost anything.

“Friday!” I yelled, pointing at Drummond. “Get him!”

I wasn’t sure if Pauline had ever included an attack trigger word in the canine training classes she’d attended with the Ridgeback, but I needn’t have worried that Friday wouldn’t get the right idea.

The dog streaked across the ground between us, his toenails digging up clods as he tore at the earth to gain extra purchase, head low and shoulders hunched.

Drummond hesitated for a moment too long before he started to twist away. With a devious look in his eye, Friday bounded the last few strides, reached up, and with great deliberation clamped his jaws around the fly of the man’s jeans. It was like hearing the lock snapping shut on a prison door and knowing that, without the key, you’re going to have to use Semtex or a gas-axe to get it open again.

Drummond instantly started squealing and battering at Friday’s head and body, although without noticeable effect. The dog just tucked his ears back flat and shut his eyes. His skull was so thick he might as well have been wearing a crash helmet.

Then the pair of them overbalanced, and once the man was on the ground, I knew the Ridgeback had the upper hand. I had no qualms about leaving the two of them scuffling while I went to help Madeleine.

I ran past Sean and West to get to her. The two men were circling each other with their hackles up. Both were on guard, moving with that easy grace that suggested training, and skill. Even injured, I was still confident that Sean could take him.

I kept running.

Harlow had managed to land a couple of hefty punches on the dark-haired girl by the time I reached them, and seemed to be enjoying himself.

I threw myself onto his back in a move Friday would have been proud of, lacing one arm tight round his throat, and the other over his eyes. He just managed to get an elbow back before Madeleine took a run at him and brought her knee up hard. It seemed to be something of her trademark.

I swear I felt two lumps come up into his throat before I let go. I just had time to dismount as the man folded, gasping.

Madeleine and I both turned then to find Sean and West trading blows. Sean was taller and heavier than the other man, and he’d been taught by the nastiest people in the business, but he was still weak from the wound and the blood loss, and it was clear he was already tiring.

Even so, he’d scored a few hits, and for a moment I thought he’d done enough to disorientate West. The smaller man’s aim was off. His punches seemed to be consistently missing Sean’s ducked chin, deflecting off to the side.

Then I saw the determination in his eyes, and the cunning.

My legs had carried me a couple of steps, my mouth opening to shout a warning, when West finally got lucky and landed the blow he’d been planning all along.

He hit Sean, hard, just under the point of his left shoulder. West didn’t bother to keep his guard up after that. He already knew it was a punch that would finish the fight.

Sean went backwards silently, unable to spare the breath even to cry out. He twisted and fell, his whole body shuddering. His eyes were open, but there was only shock in them, and his breathing was quick and shallow. The blood started to well up, passing through the layers of dressing, tracking across the front of his shirt. It glistened in the firelight.

West gave him a savage smile, and moved in for the kill.

A wheaten blur suddenly shot past me and dived into the fray. Friday, bored with the game of ravaging at Drummond, had spotted a new target. His blood was up. His tribal instinct, so long contained beneath the veneer of domestication, had been let loose, and there was no stopping it now.