Henry was using his short shield which was designed to give more manoeuvrability in his supervisory role. He ensured the long-shield party were deployed to best advantage — shouting muffled orders at them through his visor and checking to ensure they all understood their role. Making himself heard was extremely difficult with the helicopter directly above. He knew this was one of the drawbacks to his plan. When satisfied, he turned to the four others left in the van and beckoned them to follow him into the shop.
Inside was a blackened, smoky mess, but no flames were burning seriously. Thick smoke clung to the ceiling like a thunder cloud and all the officers had to keep their heads low in order to see anything. Even then it was difficult because all the lighting in the shop had blown. Two of the officers were equipped with dragon lights — big, powerful torches. The beams criss-crossed each other like Second World War searchlights in the night sky.
‘Jane? Where are you? It’s me, Henry.’
‘Here — over here,’ she called out.
Henry moved towards the origin of the sound and with his merry band of four ran down the aisle to her. They found her kneeling with Dave Seymour’s head resting in her lap, her hands gently holding him. The dragon lights shone briefly into her face, making her squint.
Henry dropped onto one knee beside Seymour. He pushed his visor up. Seymour did not look good.
‘He needs a hospital — now,’ Roscoe said urgently.
‘There’s an ambulance waiting on the edge of the estate,’ Henry told her. His eyes surveyed her face. It was smoke-blackened. ‘But we’ve got to get him there first. Are you OK?’ he asked quickly.
‘Smoke damaged, otherwise saleable.’ She managed a grin.
He nodded. ‘Right,’ he addressed his troops, ‘you two without torches help me lift Dave into the carrier. Jane — you’ll have to give us a hand too,’ he said apologetically. ‘He’s not exactly a featherweight.’
‘No problem.’
‘Once he’s in the carrier we’re going to have to get the Khans out to safety as well.’ Henry’s voice was bleak. ‘And we’re gonna have to move like shit off a shovel — ’cos they’ll be back for more very soon and we’re a nice new target.’ Henry laid his shield down and wondered which bit of Dave Seymour he was going to have to lift.
Following behind the two torch-bearing cops, Henry, Roscoe and the other two lifted and half-dragged Seymour through the shop. The process wasn’t doing him much good, but under the circumstances it was the best they could do. He was immensely heavy: twenty stones if he was a pound, Henry guessed, twenty stones of virtually, but not quite, dead weight.
At the shop door they eased him down and paused to take a breath.
Henry checked outside. Byrne was still at the wheel of the carrier. He gave Henry a thumbs-up. The four shields were still in position, the helicopter hovering nearby. It seemed to be flushing out some miscreants hiding behind some wheelie-bins. A tinge of annoyance pricked Henry. He had previously told the crew that he wanted them to stay right over the shop, not go away doing their own thing. Still, he shrugged mentally, no harm done and there was no time to remonstrate. With a ‘One, two, three — lift’, they heaved Seymour fairly smoothly from the shop and deposited him in the back of the carrier, laying him out between the seats. His breathing was laboured.
‘Hold on there, pal,’ Henry told him before jumping out of the van and leading his officers back into the shop to liberate the Khan family from their burnt-out shop and home.
This went smoothly and without argument until only Rafiq was left. He stopped at the shop doorway. ‘I need to lock up,’ he insisted. He turned to Henry. ‘And I expect you to keep it protected.’
Henry did not respond but could not keep an expression of annoyance off his face and he and Rafiq locked eyes for a few tense moments as they had often done at past encounters.
Rafiq turned to the door and inserted the key.
‘Boss!’ one of the PCs shouted at Henry from the shield line. ‘They’re coming out of the woodwork.’
Henry went up onto his toes and peered over the shields. He could see indistinct shapes moving in the darkness. It was like a camp surrounded by a pack of lions. ‘OK, we’ll be out of this in a minute.’
Rafiq finished locking the door. He dived into the carrier.
Henry yelled at the shield party. ‘Back in the van — now!’
With relief they lifted their shields, peeled back from their line and began to load themselves into the carrier, handing their shields in ahead of themselves until there was just one officer and Henry to climb in. Henry was not going to board until the last man was safe.
Then — wham! Something fell from above and the last officer went down with a scream as a microwave oven slammed down onto his shoulder.
‘Jesus!’ Henry cowered down, raising his short shield over himself and the fallen man. Up on the edge of the roof of the shop he could see figures moving about. While the helicopter had been distracted away from the shop, other rioters had sneaked around the back of the shop and climbed onto the low roof armed with various missiles and got into a position over the front door from where they could bombard the police below.
Several empty plastic crates were hurled down. Henry fended them off, surprised at how heavy they were. ‘November 21,’ he bellowed into his radio, ‘get back over the shop. Get the roof cleared. We’re under attack.’
He saw a beer barrel being raised. Empty or not, this was going to hurt — or kill.
‘Christ — my fucking shoulder,’ the injured officer moaned.
Henry braced himself for the impact, his left arm holding the shield above him and the prostrate man. He knew it offered little real protection.
The helicopter swung back and lit up the whole area, swooping down over the roof. The rioters dropped the barrel over the edge and it bounced harmlessly two feet away from Henry. Moments later he and the injured officer had been grabbed and yanked into the carrier. Byrne gunned the vehicle away before the side door was closed properly.
Henry got his breath, steadying himself. He eased his helmet off and ran his sleeve over his dirty, sweat-streaked forehead, blowing out his cheeks. He looked round at everyone crammed in there: eight constables who had worked together superbly; the Khan family, no doubt ungrateful but safe; Dave Seymour and Jane Roscoe.
He wanted to have a little victorious smile, but events ensured he was not allowed to savour the moment.
‘I think he’s stopped breathing,’ Roscoe said.
‘You do the heart,’ he said to Roscoe and, bravely, ‘I’ll do the lungs.’
He held out his helmet for someone to take, then stepped over Seymour and squeezed down between some seats so that he was at right angles to the man’s head. He glanced at Roscoe. She was almost directly opposite him, but had skewed her body so that she was in a position to start pumping Seymour’s chest. Both of them were in very tight, restricted positions with little or no room to move.
Henry felt for a pulse in Seymour’s chubby neck. God, it was hard to tell in the circumstances. His fingers pressed to the side of the windpipe did not detect anything.
‘No pulse.’ He shook his head at Roscoe.
The carrier rolled sideways wildly as Byrne took it round a sharp corner and crunched the gears again. Henry lost his balance and fell forwards, the crown of his head clashing with Roscoe’s cheek.
‘Shit!’ he yelled in Byrne’s direction, a sore head now compounding the situation.
‘Soreee,’ Byrne apologised.
Henry rubbed his head, Roscoe rubbed her cheek.