Over the radio Jane Roscoe announced the arrival of yet another petrol bomb in the shop.
‘Better get a move on, boss,’ one of the PCs said agitatedly.
Henry nodded. ‘You’re not wrong. Now listen up — this is how it’s going to be. I don’t want any deviations, don’t want any heroes. Now, what equipment do we have?’
The armoured personnel carrier crept onto the estate. Henry’s guts tightened. His mouth went dry and popped open. ‘Fuck,’ he whispered to no one but himself. Every street light had now been smashed. Apart from house lights, the place was shrouded in absolute darkness. Most houses had their curtains drawn but in some windows, Henry could see terrified faces.
Anarchy had taken over the streets. It was his job to restore law and order.
The only time Henry had known anything remotely similar had been during the miners’ strike of 1984. He had vivid memories of driving through mining villages at the dead of night, always in fear of being attacked.
He glanced at Byrne, driving the carrier; then over his shoulder at the eight constables, all in their public-order gear: helmets on, visors down, all grim-faced and serious. No banter. At the rear of the van, the six-foot-high riot shields were stacked up like dominoes, ready for rapid deployment. In the footwell in front of him, Henry had a short shield ready.
Henry, too, was now in his public-order gear, having hopped and pulled himself into it after briefing his officers.
The heavy overalls were making him sweat. The flame-retardant material was as thick as cardboard and the garment, pulled on over his normal uniform, was not designed for comfort. Beads of sweat trundled one after the other down his forehead and dripped into his eyes, making him blink.
‘You’ll need to keep your wits about you,’ Henry shouted back to the officers. ‘It’ll be loud and disorientating — so be ready and keep your cool.’
He was about to say more as Byrne turned a corner to find the road immediately ahead of them blocked by two cars which had been rolled onto their sides. Behind the cars was a bunch of youths, all wearing ski-masks or balaclavas. Henry quickly estimated there were a dozen of them. All youngsters, some as young as ten years old.
‘Back out of here now,’ he said quickly to Byrne, who was already ahead of him — but could not seem to be able to ram the gear lever into reverse.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ said the sergeant, with each word trying to hit the gear.
‘Come on,’ Henry encouraged him. Then he shouted: ‘Missiles!’
A wave of lighted petrol bombs flashed over from the line of youths and smashed on and around the carrier.
Henry ducked instinctively when one of the milk bottles burst against the metal grille pulled down over the windscreen petrol erupted in flames. The intense heat was immediate and breathtaking.
‘Get us out of here!’ Henry growled to Byrne.
The sergeant’s face was grim as he tried repeatedly to get reverse.
‘Try using the clutch,’ one of the PCs in the back quipped. This brought nervous laughter.
‘Thanks for that,’ Byrne said. With an ear-crunching grating of metal on metal, the syncromesh yielded and the gear went in.
A cheer went up from the rear.
Using only his side mirrors as a guide, Byrne gunned the carrier backwards, unconcerned that anyone could be behind. If they were, it was tough. They wouldn’t be innocent bystanders. The big bus slewed from side to side as a hail of stones, bricks, bottles and lumps of wood and metal followed the petrol bombs, clattering on the bonnet and roof like debris from a twister. Inside the carrier, the sound reverberated, amplified a hundred times.
Shouts of fear and excitement came from the officers. Henry remained silent, gripping the dashboard to steady himself.
Byrne reversed expertly around the corner, out of the line of fire, trying desperately to keep control of the vehicle which pitched and swayed alarmingly at speed in reverse. The lighted petrol on the windscreen burned out quickly.
Byrne whipped the steering wheel down and executed a one-eighty-degree turn, completely about-facing the carrier, crashing up onto the kerb as he did so, miraculously keeping the engine going, revving it to screaming point. He accelerated away from the ambush site. In his rear-view mirror he saw the small gang of rioters spill out, throwing anything they could get their grubby hands on at the retreating police van.
‘Well done,’ Henry said. He asked everyone if they were all right. No one said they weren’t. ‘Right — fuck this for a game of soldiers. I think we’ve pissed about long enough,’ he said so everyone could hear. ‘We need to get to that shop now, otherwise it’ll be too late — everyone agree?’
The response was emphatic — if muted by the visors in front of everybody’s faces. Yes, they agreed.
‘OK, Dermot — swing this beast round and let’s cut through Osmond Avenue. No caution this time. Blue lights just as we get there, sirens too.’
‘Right,’ Byrne said through his tightly clenched jaw.
Henry put his radio near his mouth. ‘Oscar November 21 receiving? Inspector to Oscar November 21, are you in position?’
It would have to be done very quickly. No messing. No delays. Because if it went wrong there would be hell to pay, maybe lives lost.
Henry deleted all negative thoughts from his mind. This was going to work. He would make damned sure it would.
The carrier veered into sight of Khan’s shop.
Henry took in the crowd surrounding the place. There seemed to be hundreds there at first glance — maybe not at second, but still a lot. A car burned brightly outside the shop. It was the CID car.
‘Oscar November 21 — go now,’ Henry said, his voice cool and controlled reflecting his inner self. He had moved on from fear and from excitement. He was tense, of that there was no doubt, the adrenaline was rushing into his system like fuel injection into a sports car — just the right amount for perfect performance. But what he felt now was cold controlled anger.
‘Oscar November 21 — we’re there now,’ came the response from the force helicopter.
Henry received the message. He flicked the switch for the blue lights and the two-tones.
Above them, from out of the black night sky, like some massive avenging insect, the helicopter swooped down, deceptively low and ear-shatteringly loud. It did an impressive fly past just feet above the heads of the rioters, spiralled spectacularly through a tight circle and came back to hover over Khan’s shop. The powerful night-sun searchlight slung underneath the helicopter came on, swathing the scene below with incredible brightness.
‘Foot down,’ Henry commanded Byrne. The carrier hurtled towards the backs of the rioters, horns blaring and Henry shouting through the public-address system, volume turned up high, deliberately distorted, adding to the clatter of the helicopter. ‘Clear the streets,’ he hollered. ‘This is the police. You are requested to clear the streets. Anyone remaining will be arrested. I repeat, if you do not disperse, you will be arrested.’
He was going for the psychological upper hand which he knew, if successful, would only be short lived. He was hoping this assault on the senses of the rioters would give him the window of opportunity he needed to achieve his goal.
It worked.
Overawed and disorientated by the helicopter above, threatened by the reckless approach of the personnel carrier at ground level, the rioters ran like rats down a sewer. They scrambled away from the lights, shocked and surprised, maybe frightened, by the approach. Suddenly there was a way through for the carrier to the shop front. Byrne, gripping the steering wheel tightly, concentrating hard, powered the heavy machine through the clearing. He mounted the pavement with a back-jarring, head-thumping thud, and skidded to a halt at an angle across the shop entrance.
‘Out now,’ Henry roared. ‘Move it, move it.’ He slammed down his visor.
The side door of the van sprang open. The first officer leapt out. He was handed one of the riot shields which he hooked onto his left forearm. He ran to the back of the van and took up his position. He was immediately joined by three more of his colleagues who slammed their shields down — smack-smack-smack — next to his, all edge to edge. The idea was to provide some protection to the officers who had been detailed to enter the shop.