They had eaten a light dinner – without alcohol – when Harry ran down the stairs from outside, made a gesture for them to leave.
Lisa, wearing her sweater and jeans, dashed into the ladies', carrying her raincoat. Locked in a cubicle she swiftly changed into her 'tart's' outfit, emerged wearing the raincoat.
'Vorina's, the discotheque,' Harry told them and dashed out and up the steps into the street, followed by Pete Nield. The four-wheel drive was parked nearby and they jumped into it. Tweed had taken the precaution of paying his bill early while he drank coffee. The others had done the same.
Lisa appeared, her raincoat belted tightly, joined Newman and Mark. They dived into their car, Newman taking the wheel. Tweed and Paula led the convoy – he had parked his car ahead of the other two vehicles.
'Where the heck is this Vorina's?' Tweed asked.
'In a side street off Regent Street. I'll guide you…'
The moment they entered the side street Tweed saw Vorina's. It was impossible to miss with the glow of lights shining out through enormous plate-glass windows. Earlier, after consulting Harry, Paula had arranged with him to rush out in the afternoon and purchase three members' tickets. One ticket admitted three people.
'Only ninety quid for that lot,' he'd told her when he came back and distributed tickets.
'Ninety pounds!' she'd exclaimed. 'It must be a high-class place.'
'Decide for yourself when you see it,' he'd told her.
They parked in a wide alley with the four-wheel drive in front. A doorman in a blue uniform checked their tickets while Paula stared inside. Behind the windows attractive girls in various states of undress were dancing. When the door was opened a blast of sound hit them, the latest modern 'music'.
Crystal balls of lights were suspended from the ceiling of the vast room. They flashed on and off non-stop in wild colours. On a platform halfway down the left-hand side a group of five young men were armed with saxophones, guitars, and heaven knew what else. Huge amplifiers built up the deafening noise to incredible decibels. Couples sat at tables, drinking and trying to hear each other. At intervals down the right-hand side were booths where men were playing at undressing their girlfriends. A number of older men were urging younger girlfriends to drink more. Tweed could see no activity the police would regard as obscene. They were all people of various ages enjoying themselves. But he didn't like the hellish noise or the flashing lights. C'est la vie, as the French would say. Paula grasped his arm after looking back.
'Trouble.'
Lisa, who had gone ahead, ran back to them, heard what Paula had said.
'Big trouble,' she warned.
At the entrance door a giant had pushed his way in, followed by a troop of ugly-looking toughs wearing ragged camouflage jackets. The doorman demanded from Delgado his ticket. The giant grabbed the doorman with one hand round the throat, lifted him off the floor, slammed him against the wall. His victim collapsed. A bouncer appeared, tried to grab the giant by one arm. Delgado grasped his wrist, whirled him round and round, let go suddenly. The bouncer crashed against the wall, collapsed. The giant's toughs were rapidly infiltrating the restaurant.
They ran from table to table, jerking the cloths off them, spilling plates and food and drink on the floor. One man, using a can of spray paint, swiftly defaced a wall with his graffiti message. Down With Monny, Tweed detected a degree of illiteracy.
Panic broke out. Women were screaming. Men were holding on to their partners, trying to escort them out through a wild mob. One woman with a semi-backless dress was refusing to leave her table. Delgado came up behind her, shoved in his huge hand, tore the dress down to her seat. Butler appeared behind the giant, grabbed a handful of his hair, crashed his head down on to the table, then went elsewhere. Delgado straightened up, dazed, staggered round.
The five-man entertainment group had stopped playing, stood scared stiff on the platform. A tough jumped on the platform, a graffiti can in one hand. He grabbed hold of the saxophone, squirted liquid inside it. The youngster whose instrument it was protested. The tough reversed the instrument, holding it by the horn end. Using it as a club he hit the youngster a savage blow behind the legs. The lad collapsed off the platform. Mark had just hit a tough on the side of his neck. His target went down like a sack of coals.
'Time to leave,' Tweed decided.
'Easiest escape route,' Lisa pointed out, 'is along the wall by the booths…'
Tweed was waving his hand to warn the others to leave. Butler saw him, took out a whistle, blew a penetrating blast clearly heard above the screaming and shouting. All the booths were now empty and there was a clear passage past them. Close to the exit Paula glanced back, saw Delgado, fully recovered, also heading for the street. He rammed his way through the scared crowd, shoving people aside.
Butler was ahead of them as they emerged into the street with Nield close behind him. Lisa grasped Butler's arm before he could run to his vehicle.
'Wait a minute when you're behind the wheel. Delgado has some other devilry…'
They were in their cars, their engines running, when Tweed lowered his window, glowering as he looked back at what remained of Vorina's. Delgado was wielding a huge sledgehammer, probably conveniently left on the pavement earlier.
The sledgehammer crashed into the window of Vorina's. The glass, a large sheet, fell inwards, broke into pieces when it hit the floor. A girl, her expensive dress torn, ran out into the street. A tough grabbed her, hoisted her, threw her through the gaping hole. She landed inside on her back amid the shattered glass. Lisa, who had jumped out of Newman's car, ran up to Butler, then ran back to Tweed.
'Piccadilly Circus next.'
'I know. Get back inside your car…'
The four-wheel drive moved off, followed by Newman's car and Tweed bringing up the rear. In no time at all they were approaching Piccadilly Circus down Regent Street.
'That was horrible,' Paula said. 'I'm sure I saw one man with a broken neck. Who are these bastards?'
'I did notice,' Tweed told her, 'that a number were British, but a larger number were foreigners. Kosovars, Turks, I think I even spotted an Afghan. At least we now know what we're up against. The trick is to find the top man.'
'Lord! Look at this.'
Every car parked – or abandoned – in Regent Street that they passed had windows, windscreens smashed in. One large store had no glass left in its windows. Toughs were coming out holding armruls of expensive suits. The looting had started.
Thanks to Butler being in the lead, they drove straight down Regent Street. When groups of toughs stood in the road he drove ruthlessly at them. They scattered swiftly. At the Circus was a fresh mob. Eros had already been defaced by sprays of graffiti. A crowd of 'revolutionaries' occupied the top level. Butler was driving part way round with his window open. A hulking man threw a brick, aimed at the four-wheel drive. Driving with one hand, Butler caught the brick with his other gloved hand. He stopped, hurled the brick back with all his strength. It struck the thrower on the jaw.
'Let's clear that lot,' Nield suggested. 'Drive once round Eros.'
Nield was holding his latest weapon, a long wide-barrelled metal tube. Butler sat well back. As he circled once round Eros, Nield aimed the barrel through the open window at the top level. He pressed the trigger. A jet of ice-cold water sprayed the crowd, soaking them. When Butler had completed his circle the men and women on Eros was drenched to the skin.
'Dampen their ardour,' Nield remarked as Butler headed out of the Circus.
Seated in the back of Newman's car with Mark in the passenger seat in front, Lisa, occupying the back, had pulled on her jeans, her sweater, her coat. She was glad Butler had turned his heater full on. Her mobile buzzed.
She listened, said they were on their way, warned Newman, took out a little notebook with the mobile numbers of Butler and Paula, gave them both the same message.