Stone Cold Red Hot - [50]

“I can look after myself,” he said coolly.

“Maybe,” I said, “but I don’t want to put anyone else at risk. Isn’t there someone else, another driver who could take me?”

I meant a white driver but couldn’t quite bring myself to state it.

“No.”

“I could ring another firm.” I was thinking aloud.

“Look, I’ll drop you nearby,” he said. “That do you?”

There wasn’t time to quibble and I thought he’d probably be alright doing that. The trouble would be down the Close and we could stop up on the main road.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not the one who’s bothered. I told you; I can look after myself.”

“OK, thanks.”

He roared off and got us there in just over seven minutes. He pulled up a few yards from the junction. “They’ve blocked it off,” he said.

“Oh, God.”

A row of wheelie bins, an old mattress, scrap metal, the shell of a car (not mine), and the remains of a fridge freezer were strewn across the road.

I opened the car door to see more clearly. Three boys, maybe nine or ten years old, peered from behind the bins. “Fuck off,” one of them shouted.

I got out and went closer, “What’s going on?”

“Mind your own fuckin’ business.”

“I need to get through.”

“What for?”

“See my uncle.”

“Who’s he then?”

“Mr Poole.”

“He’s a grass he is, old farty arse.”

I was sure they’d resist any attempt I made to clear the junk away. I walked back towards the taxi; maybe we could drive round and find the alleyway that led into the bottom of the Close.

A police siren grew closer and soon the flashing lights appeared round the bend. The car slewed to a halt by the barricade. I got my bag out of the taxi and retraced my steps. The taxi-driver got out and followed me.

“Come on, lads,” it was PC Doyle, the bigot. “Clear this lot out of the way.” He made it sound like a weary request.

“We never done it,” one of the lads piped up.

“Shift it,” he barked.

The kids ran off, one of them hurled a load of abuse as he went.

The copper glanced at me and the cabbie.

“You best be off,” he said.

“I need to get through,” I said.

“You don’t live round here,” he challenged.

“My uncle, Mr Poole, I’m staying there.”

He looked at me, eyes heavy with mistrust. Then he flicked his glance to the taxi-driver.

“Well, you can be on your way, Abdul,” he said. He began to pull one of the wheelie bins aside.

“The name’s Johnny,” said the cabbie. I could hear the effort of control in his voice.

“I don’t care if it’s Mahatma bleeding Ghandi,” he yanked another bin to the kerb, “get on your flying carpet and piss off.” He stooped to pull at a length of rusted metal and hurled it across to the pavement. He grimaced, his hands were filthy from the rust.

“What’s your problem?” Johnny demanded.

“Hang on a minute, “I protested to Doyle, “you can’t…”

He wheeled round, confronting Johnny. “You are getting in my way and if you don’t move it, now, I’m charging you with obstruction, got that?” He stood, hands on hip, a grin of irritation on his face.

“This is crazy,” I began.

“You too, girlie,” he snapped. Then turning back to Johnny, “Move it, paki, now.”

Johnny stared back, face set, eyes blazing.

“Right,” the policeman lunged, span him round and rammed his right arm up his back hard.

“Let him go,” I shouted.

“Get in the car,” yelled Doyle, pushing Johnny towards the white saloon. “I’m arresting you on charges of obstruction and assaulting a police officer. You do not have to say anything but should you fail to mention,” he rattled off the long caution without pausing for breath as I ran after them. At the car Johnny stiffened. Doyle threw open the door. “Get in the car, get in the car,” he roared, “get in the fucking car.”

“Get off my arm,” Johnny shouted back.

“Get in the fucking car, now.”

He bundled Johnny in. There were wolf whistles and cheers from the smaller kids, I couldn’t see them but they were watching the whole shebang.

“What are you messing about with him for?” I demanded of Doyle. “He’s done nothing. There’s that lot down there to worry about. There’s a mother and three kids in that house, it’s them you should be thinking about.”

What was he planning to do with Johnny? Take him back to the police station, stopping on the way to ‘teach him a lesson’, hitting him where the bruises wouldn’t show? Or claiming that any marks were down to Johnny’s own violence when Doyle tried to arrest him? Anything could happen. What if Doyle let the Brennans get at Johnny? I felt sick to my stomach. I’d watch him like a hawk. And I could always get the camera out if Doyle tried anything stupid. He wouldn’t like his ‘community policing approach’ recorded on film, I was sure of that.

Doyle stalked off and began dragging things out of the way.

I bent down and spoke through the window so Johnny could hear me. “I’m sorry. Look, we’ll sort it out, we’ll sort something out. Are you OK?”

He glared at me. I suppose it was a daft question.

As soon as I could, I would register an official complaint against PC Doyle but before then I had to get through and do my job. The quickest way to do that was to help clear the road. I went over to the other side of the road from Doyle and began shifting stuff to the roadside; a greasy bike frame, a heavy car door, its metal squealing as I scraped it along the tarmac. We’d soon cleared the way.