The Ship was a pokey little pub opposite the church at the end of Cockpit Lane. It had no room for gadgets like Space Invaders machines, jukeboxes or TV sets. Now it was deserted, the landlord leaning morosely on the bar studying form in the racing pages.
‘Quiet tonight,’ Brock said. He was five minutes late.
The publican grunted and shrugged. ‘Something going on. What’ll it be?’
‘Half of bitter, please. Have one yourself.’
‘Ta.’
‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone here.Young black lad. Seen him?’
‘Haven’t seen nobody, mate.You’re my first customer tonight.’
Brock glanced through the morning paper while he sipped at his beer. On page two he came across a report of the disturbance in Brixton the previous evening. Three police officers from Operation Swamp had been assaulted by a crowd after trying to assist a black youth who’d been stabbed. Bricks and bottles had been thrown, and six arrests made.
The time dragged on. He checked his watch again at six-forty and decided Joseph wasn’t coming.Then the phone behind the bar rang. The publican had difficulty understanding what the caller wanted.Eventually he looked over and said,‘Your name Brack?’
‘Brock. It’s for me, is it?’
‘Hard to say.’ The man handed him the phone.
‘Hello, Brock here. Is that you Joseph?’
‘Yeah. Is you fe true, man?’ He sounded out of breath, panicky, his voice pitched higher than before, no longer cool and husky.
‘Of course it’s me, Joseph. I’m waiting at the Ship, like we arranged.Where are you?’
‘I cyan come dere now, seen? Dem try fe dus’ me!’ The voice rose almost to a shriek. Brock could hear thumping music and voices in the background.
‘Who’s trying to kill you?’
‘You know who, supa. Dat big bad white bwoy.’
‘White? You’re talking about Spider Roach, is that right?’
Joseph gave a sob.
‘Where are you now?’
‘De Cat and Fiddle in Angell Town. Somebody ah follow me. Mek me laf yah, y’hear?’
‘No, don’t leave there, Joseph. I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes. Just stay where you are!’
Brock was out of the door and running. It was a ten-minute walk, he reckoned, a five-minute run, a two-minute taxi ride. But there were no taxis.He reached the main road where the traffic was dense, not moving. A police car was stuck in the middle, lights flashing impotently. As he plunged across the road he heard the sound of a helicopter overhead, chop-chop-chop. He looked up and saw the word ‘Police’ on its fuselage. He’d read about the new Air Support Unit but it was the first time he’d seen such a thing over London.It was flying south-west,where he was going,towards a haze of smoke he now noticed in the sky,turning the late sun into a red disc.
He reached the pub at last, his chest heaving from the half-mile run. Sirens were braying everywhere around him now, although he still hadn’t encountered the crisis, whatever it was. An excited crowd made up of both black and white youths was gathering in the street outside the pub. It was crowded inside and he struggled through, from bar to bar, without success. Joseph was nowhere to be seen. As he stood, panting, eyes roving, a soft voice murmured at his side.‘You wan’Joseph,sir?’
‘Yes!’ He swivelled, then dropped his eyes to face a tiny middle-aged woman staring up at him.
‘You’re his friend, sir?’
‘I am.We were supposed to meet here. Have you seen him?’
‘He phoned me too. I’m his aunty, Winnie Wellington’s my name.’ She offered a hand and he felt the skin hard and rough in his grasp.
‘David Brock. I’m a policeman, Winnie. I’ve seen you in Cockpit Lane.’
‘He needs yo’ help. He’s very scared, sir. He asked me to bring money for him. He said if I saw you to tell you he’s gone to the Windsor Castle in Mayall Road. He feel safer dere among black folk, and he has a friend who can hide him. His name’s Walter.’
‘You saw Joseph here?’
‘Only for a moment. He told me this, and then he saw somethin’ dat scared the life out o’ him, and he just ran for the door over there.’
‘What did he see?’
‘Two men came in the other door. Big men, hard men, in black leather jackets.White men.’
‘Thank you,Winnie.I’ll do what I can.’
She laid a hand on his arm. ‘If you’re goin’ to Mayall Road you’d best take care, Mr Brock.’
He hurried out into the maze of streets heading south, turning eventually into Brixton Road.There he stopped dead,transfixed by the spectacle of a circle of people dancing around a man on fire. His hair, his suit were ablaze with fierce orange flames, and it took Brock a moment to realise that it was a shop dummy. They were outside Burton’s the tailors, whose glass windows had been smashed. Beyond them youths were lining both sides of the road, apparently waiting, although there was no traffic. Then a shout wentup as a police car approached,heading down thestreet towards the centre of Brixton. As it reached the lines the people began hurling bricks at it. Swerving, siren blaring, it ran the gauntlet and sped on.Brock saw the pale face of one of the coppers inside staring back through the cracked rear window at the jeering crowd.
He hurried on past kids smashing shop windows. A white woman with long fair hair was wielding a broom at the window of an off-licence, sending glass shards flying. Outside a jeweller’s shop, necklaces and watches were scattered across the pavement among the glass.A large crowd was milling outside the tube station.People were wide-eyed with excitement, some frightened, some laughing, exchanging stories.A line of uniforms was holding them back from entering Atlantic Road, where he wanted to go. He could see a police car down there in flames and the stench of burning petrol and rubber hung in the air. A fire engine stood by on this side of the police line, radio crackling, the crew waiting with arms folded. Familiar shop signs-Colliers, Boots, WH Smith-seemed oddly out of place, as if they’d been transposed to another place and time, St Petersburg in 1917 perhaps.
Brock decided to move on and try to approach the pub from another direction. He ran past the town hall and turned into a residential side street. Ahead of him he saw a group of people clustered at a front gate. Several black youths with bricks in their hands had cornered an astonished white man, while his terrified wife and two small children looked on from a car parked at the kerb. Brock moved to help but several other black men appeared and pulled their friends away, leaving the man unhurt. Brock could hear distant shouts ahead and the incomprehensible braying of a megaphone. The sky was darker here, twilight compounded by a pall of smoke, lit from below by a flickering orange glow.
He turned a corner and stumbled into a squad of police. They were sitting on the kerb and against a wall, their shields and visored helmets on the ground beside them. One looked up at him and he recognised a young PC from his own station, dabbing at blood on his forehead.
‘Hello, Stan,’ he said.‘You all right?’
The constable didn’t seem to recognise him. ‘Got me with a fucking brick, didn’t they? Bastards. They’re chucking fucking petrol bombs at us now. Can you believe that? Molotov cocktails in the streets of London.’
He moved on, sensing the heart of the storm ahead from the noises of battle, the rhythmic beating of batons against shields, the crashes of destruction, angry cries. Then at last he emerged into Railton Road. The street was littered with upturned and burning vehicles, broken bricks and glass. A fire engine stood abandoned, black smoke pouring from its cabin. Brock found himself behind a double police line facing a chanting crowd. A flaring petrol bomb arced through the smoke and smashed directly onto an upturned shield, spraying fire over several cops. There was a whoop from the crowd as the police line broke,a shower of bricks,and then the mob surged forward into the flailing batons.