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.
'Herb called me. A riot's breaking out near The Hangman's Noose. A big one. I told Herb we're coming…'
Leaving the West End, everything became quiet. Paula welcomed the peace, the lack of violent people. At one point Tweed overtook both Newman and Butler, putting himself at the head of the column while Paula, a map open on her lap, navigated.
Realizing it was time for a news bulletin, Tweed switched on the radio. The announcer was just beginning.
'Reports are coming in of serious riots in the centres of Paris and Berlin. A commentator said they had the appearance of being coordinated since they started at the same time in both capitals.. .'
Tweed switched off, his expression grim.
'And here too,' he said.
'What does it mean?' Paula asked.
'That it's international. Which worries me. Which means we have to locate the top man.'
'And I think Lisa knows who he is. Which would put her on the other side.'
'It's a mystery, one I'm determined to solve.'
They said no more until they were approaching the East End. Tweed slowed down, drove more cautiously. In his rear view mirror he saw that Butler and Newman were close behind them.
'We'll soon be at Reefers Wharf,' Paula remarked.
'I wonder why they call it that? I suppose it's on the edge of the river.'
'No, it isn't. I was asking Lisa about it when I took her to the bathroom. The end near The Hangman's Noose is a quarter of a mile at least from the Thames. Apparently it was once a real wharf. Barges and small freighters used it to unload. Then some property speculator had the idea that if he filled it in he'd have some valuable real estate. So now most of the warehouses are offices occupied by companies paying sky-high rents. We're very close now, I think.'
They turned a corner and the street where in daytime the market was held stretched about before them. In the distance Tweed could see, by the light of flames, The Hangman's Noose. Someone had hung from the sign board a real noose with the mask of a grotesque head inside it.
'If it was chaos in the West End this is anarchy,' Paula said grimly.
There seemed to be far more thugs than those they had left behind. When it closed, the stallholders' tables used in the market were folded up, stacked against the far wall. These had been dragged into the road, piled up, set alight. Tweed stopped in front of The Hangman's Noose. They got out as Newman's and Butler's vehicles arrived.
Lisa jumped out, ran along to Tweed and Paula, pointed to a stocky man emerging from the pub. All the windows were boarded up and Herb was carrying a heavy club.
'It's been hell,' he said, addressing Tweed. 'They've been attacking women as well as men.'
Lisa left them. A thug was battering a man with his club. He turned, grinned when he saw her. She stiffened the side of her hand, hit him with a karate chop. He sagged and she grabbed his club. A fire engine had arrived and men in helmets were preparing to deal with the bonfires dotted down the street, flaring up viciously. Tweed noticed groups of thugs were gathered along the opposite pavement, listening to a strange tall fat man in a pink shirt, waving a malacca cane.
Harry Butler saw a fireman bent over a hydrant, attaching a big hosepipe. Then he had difficulty turning on the water. A thug, holding a knife, came up behind him as the fireman removed his helmet, which was getting in his way.
'Look out!' shouted Butler, running forward.
The thug hit the fireman with a club in his other hand. The fireman fell down. The thug turned to face Butler who smashed him in the face with his fist. The thug dropped the knife, lost his club, dazed by the tremendous blow. Butler grabbed his long hair, rammed his head back against a brick wall with such force he thought he heard the skull crack.
Glancing round, he saw the army of thugs, divided into groups, advancing across the street. Further down the
