The first news crew pulled up in a van behind the police line. Word had started to spread. The mob around the growing pile of burning debris swelled. Caffola stood with his hands on his hips, watching it all unfold, his nose tilted up as if he were sniffing violence on the air.
Fegan’s nostrils flared too, the old scent waking memories in him. “How bad?” he asked.
“Not too bad,” Caffola said. “Just a bit of a scrap. Nobody’ll get killed.”
Fegan looked to Caffola’s throat. “You sure?”
“Aye. It’s not the Eighties any more. Fuck, it’s not even the Nineties. A few stitches, that’ll be the height of it.” Caffola’s belly jerked with a sudden laugh. He pointed towards the row of Land Rovers. “You see her?”
Fegan followed the line of Caffola’s finger. He saw a young policewoman hunkered down, her back to them, as she talked to her colleagues. Blonde hair crept out from under her cap, and the image of Marie McKenna flashed in Fegan’s mind. He shook it away.
Caffola nudged him. “At the back of the Land Rover. You see her?”
Fegan almost said yes, he saw her, but he caught himself, hoping Caffola would pick another target if he kept quiet. No such luck.
“Watch.” Caffola lifted an empty bottle from the bar’s windowsill. He ran a few steps, the bottle suspended over his right shoulder. He threw his body forward and released the missile.
It rose in a slow arc, then descended towards the policewoman. Fegan willed it to miss, to splash impotently at her feet.
, he thought. He closed his eyes until he heard it crash on the tarmac.
He opened them to see the cops scatter, taking shelter behind the Land Rovers.
“Fuck,” Caffola said. He winked at Fegan. “Close, though.”
Fegan breathed deep. He knew this was Vincent Francis Caffola’s last night on earth.
With that thought, his temples sparked and a cold wave rippled through him. The setting sun cast long shadows. Shapes emerged from them, solidified, and drew near. The two UDR men flanked Caffola, their arms raised, their fingers aiming. The rest circled Fegan. The woman, her baby restless in her arms, smiled at him.
Engines roared and brakes squealed at the police line. Men in full riot gear streamed out of six more Land Rovers. They wore helmets with clear visors, fireproof balaclavas masking their faces, and thick body armor. Their gloved hands held riot shields and batons.
They were ready. The mob was ready. Fegan was ready.
Caffola turned to him once more, grinning. “Fucking class,” he said.
At first, the police maintained their line. As lumps of masonry came in waves they simply raised their shields to deflect each missile. A senior officer, distinguishable only by his gait, paced behind their ranks, barking orders. Fegan couldn’t hear them from this distance, but he knew what they were just the same.
Things changed when the first petrol bombs arrived. One of the kids came half running, half staggering, struggling with a crate loaded with petrol-filled bottles. He remained out of sight of the police line, signalling Caffola from the side street, his back against the wall. They had selected the larger bottles, filled them with a mixture of fuel and sugar, and plugged the tops with petrol-soaked rags.
Fegan clenched and unclenched his fists, fighting the adrenalin already coursing through him. The followers circled, watching.
At Caffola’s signal, boys ran to the corner to fetch the deadly bottles. Smoke from the burning pile of mattresses and wood obscured the details of their actions from the police, but there could be no surprise in what was to come. The petrol bomb had always been the weapon of choice on these streets.
Fegan didn’t see who threw the first one. He saw only its fiery ascent, smoke following its fall. There was the sound of shattering glass, then the WHUMP! of the liquid igniting ten feet from the peelers. Those nearest took a step back and their commander scolded them as the mob cheered.
The next was thrown by the same skinny red-haired boy Caffola had instructed to disguise himself only a short while before. He gave the throw everything he could, but it landed twenty feet from the line, its fuel scattering everywhere and failing to catch light. The boy kicked at the ground in frustration.
The third was the charm. An older boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, lit the rag on his bottle and made his way out from behind the burning barricade. Air rippled around the flame as the boy held the bottle over his shoulder. He ran five steps and launched it. He froze and watched the petrol bomb arc upwards. The now hundred- strong crowd held its breath as the bottle reached its zenith, then fell, twisting and turning, leaving a smoky trail. Policemen scrambled backwards as the accuracy of the shot became apparent. It splashed at their feet, throwing flames around them, and the roar of the mob was deafening. As Caffola laughed and slapped his shoulder, Fegan watched the four cops touched by the fire drop and roll, their colleagues swatting at the flames with their gloved hands.
More petrol bombs flew, and more found their targets, some crashing against the Land Rovers, some making little hells at the feet of the police. Every successful hit brought another chorus of triumph from the boys and men surrounding Fegan. The eleven followers gathered around him, rapt in the spectacle.
“They’ll charge soon,” Fegan said, his temples throbbing, his heart racing. “They’ll run at us, drive the Land Rovers at us, try to break us up. They’ll want to scatter everyone into the side streets.”
“Yeah, I know,” Caffola said. He winked. “I’ve done this before, remember?”
“I remember,” Fegan said. He remembered everything. The charge, and the scattering, would be the key; his chance to get Caffola away and on his own.
Any minute now, he thought. He looked back to the police line. The Land Rovers maneuvered into position. They would come first, the cops following. The mob quieted, the boys and men bracing themselves. Caffola gave a girlish giggle as the police commander’s voice drifted on the breeze. The Land Rovers’ engines revved and the cops
