would kill him and then run. There were still hundreds of people milling around Stamford Bridge; it would be simple to disappear into the crowd.
Briefly Alex thought about Adam Wright and wondered what was going on inside the changing room. But there was nothing he could do for the footballer. He was more worried about himself.
They left the building. The east stand was now behind them, the terraces slanting up at an angle from the ground. There was a high wall straight ahead. Alex knew that the railway ran behind it -the wall had been built to keep out the noise. On the other side of the tracks was a cemetery. Alex had been there when his uncle, Ian Rider, was buried. He had to think. If he didn’t do something soon, he might well end up joining him.
Steel Watch jabbed the gun into the small of his back, deliberately hurting him. He had seen a couple of policemen standing on the other side of the gates that led into the Fulham Road. There was an endless queue of people filtering slowly out of the gates. The bars, restaurants and hotels were open. Alex paused.
He couldn’t believe they were about to walk through the middle of it all.
Steel Watch sensed his hesitation. “We are going to start walking now,” he hissed. “Remember. The gun is out of sight. There’ll be one shot and nobody will know where it came from. You’ll be lying in the gutter and I’ll be gone. Head out of the gates and across the road. I will tell you where to go after that.” Alex began to walk with the wall on his left. He turned the corner and saw the ticket booths and souvenir shop just ahead. The Stratford East fans seemed to have gone, taking their disappointment with them. But the Chelsea supporters were in no hurry. It was a mild evening and this was the place to be, meeting friends, savouring the victory. Alex knew that his situation would get worse with every step he took. Right here, now, there might be something he could do. There were the two policemen, chatting together, unaware that anything was wrong. There would be dozens more on the Fulham Road. But once Alex moved away from the crowds, he would be totally exposed. Steel Watch had mentioned a van. Alex imagined the steel door slamming shut behind him. At that moment he would be as good as dead.
He had to do something now, before it was too late. He glanced over his shoulder. Steel Watch was being careful, keeping a safe distance between them. The man had his hands tucked under his jacket. It didn’t even look as if the two of them were together, but Alex knew that the gun was trained on him. If he tried anything, Steel Watch would fire through the fabric. He couldn’t speak; he couldn’t turn. He had to keep moving.
The gates were getting closer. The Fulham Road was beyond. One of the policemen was giving somebody directions. But they weren’t going to help him. What about the crowd? Ahead of him, next to the exit, he caught a glimpse of red and black. Two Stratford East supporters in team shirts. One of them was a skinhead with small, red eyes and a ruddy, pock-marked face. He was scowling at the departing Chelsea fans and Alex could see that he would love to cause trouble. He was swaying on his feet. He’d probably been drinking. But there were too many policemen around. All he had was attitude—and he was showing as much of it as he could.
Alex was heading straight towards him with Steel Watch close behind. And suddenly he had a thought.
Steel Watch was keeping an eye on his every movement. But he couldn’t see his face. He couldn’t see what he did with his hands.
But the Stratford East supporter could.
Alex slowed down.
“Keep moving,” Steel Watch ordered in a low, ugly voice.
Alex stared at the skinhead. He had once read somewhere that if you stared at another person hard enough, they’d become aware of you. He had tried it often enough when he was bored in class. Now he focused all his attention on the man even as he continued walking forward, weaving through the crowd.
The man looked up. It wasn’t telepathy; there was no real way he could avoid him. Alex was about fifteen metres away, getting closer all the time. People were crossing in front of him—fathers with their sons, couples, fans dressed in the blue Chelsea strip—but Alex ignored them. His eyes drilled into the Stratford East supporter.
The skinhead noticed him. His own eyes narrowed.
Alex’s hand was against his chest. With his gaze still fixed on the man, he raised two fingers slowly and deliberately, then dropped one of them. Unseen by Steel Watch, he had signalled the score: two-one. And he had left his middle finger standing offensively upright. Alex sneered at the supporter, trying to look as aggressive as he could. The supporter stared. Alex repeated the sign. This was the worst insult he could throw at the man without opening his mouth.
Alex had been right. The Stratford East supporter was drunk. He had watched his team lose with almost as much disgust as Drevin himself, and the botched penalty in the final seconds had enraged him. And here was some cocky little sod, a Chelsea supporter, making fun of him! Well, to hell with the police. To hell with the crowd. He wasn’t going to stand here and take it. He was going to sort him out.
He lumbered forward. Alex felt a spurt of excitement as he saw that his tactic had worked. Behind him, Steel Watch hadn’t realized what was going on. Things had to happen very quickly; Alex needed the element of surprise.
The Stratford East supporter stopped in front of him, blocking his path. “What’s your problem?” he demanded.
Alex came to a halt—he had no choice—and he felt Steel Watch bump into him. There was no longer any distance between them.
“I said—what’s your problem?”
Alex said nothing. He had been instructed not to talk. Instead he twisted his face into a sneer of amusement, mocking the man who stood in front of him.
It worked. The supporter swore at him and lashed out with his right fist. Alex ducked. The fist flew past his head and slammed into the throat of Steel Watch, who had been standing right behind him. The gun went off. The bullet hit the Stratford East supporter in the arm, spinning him round. Panic erupted. Suddenly everyone was screaming and running, aware that somebody had been shot but not knowing who had fired.
The two policemen charged in through the gates. Behind them a third policeman appeared on horseback.
The horse whinnied and began to push through the scattering crowd.
The Stratford East supporter was sitting on the ground, clasping his injured arm. Alex felt sorry for him, but he wasn’t going to hang around. The instant the gun had been fired, he had darted away, diving into the crowd, weaving left and right, hoping Steel Watch wouldn’t have a chance to shoot again.
He had timed it perfectly. Steel Watch didn’t dare try another shot. There were already too many people between him and Alex. And he couldn’t bring out the gun without drawing attention to himself. There were police everywhere. There was nothing more he could do.
Alex ran on, past the Chelsea shop and
