Chapter 6 #2
Tufty had one of the larger Polo-Shirts pinned to the ground in a lock-and-bar hold, twisting the guy’s arm out of its socket – trying to get the cuffs on with his other hand.
Which meant the sexy brunette was free to put the boot into Mr Polo-Shirt’s ribs and head.
Good job those boots were a pair of nice soft trainers, otherwise she could’ve done some real damage.
But she was bloody well trying.
Tufty fumbled the cuffs again, glaring up at Little Miss Stomps-A-Lot. ‘GET OUT OF IT!’
All over the street, blood and teeth and punches flew.
And they already had one attempted murder.
Yeah . . .
No way two police officers were ending this any time soon.
‘TRAITORS! TRAITORS! TRAITORS!’
‘HOY! HOY! HOY!’
Right.
She struggled free of the riot and marched over to the frog-faced tit. Made a grab for his loudhailer. ‘Give me that!’
But he wasn’t cooperating. Holding on tight as they wrestled for it, turning round and around and around. Then shoved her away. ‘Get off me, you old bag!’
Roberta crashed down on the pavement like a sack of tatties. Breath whoomping out of her. Hat flying off to reveal her disaster hairdo.
Frog-Face brought the loudhailer up again. ‘TRAITORS! TRAITORS! TRAITORS! HOY! HOY! HOY!’
That was it. No more Mrs Nice Police-Officer.
Cheeks burning, she scrambled to her feet and ran back to the MX-5. Popped the boot.
Her stabproof, high-vis, and utility belt were right where she’d left them this morning, after clocking in and sodding off.
She hauled the heavy armoured vest over her head and scritched the Velcro sides shut, buckling on the belt as she strode back towards the fight. Teeth gritted. Thunder growling through her skull. ‘“Old bag”, is it?’
Roberta whipped out her PAVA spray – no bigger than a tube of lube – flicking off the safety catch as she headed for Mr Froggy. ‘HEY, FUCKFACE!’ Holding the thing at arm’s length, with the nozzle pointing right at him. ‘LOUDHAILER: NOW!’
‘Bugger off.’ Back to whipping up his gammony thugs. ‘TRAITORS! TRAITORS! TRAITORS!’
Can’t say she didn’t warn him. One last bit of protocol to go: clearly announce that she was deploying Pelargonic Acid Vanillylamide as a non-lethal incapacitant in an ongoing violent situation to subdue a non-cooperating individual.
‘SPRAY!’ She pressed the trigger and a somewhat apologetic squirt of clear liquid arced through the air to spatter against the git’s face.
He pulled his head back, spluttering and blinking, features all creased like a revolted toad.
One hand wiping at his suddenly wet skin.
‘What did . . .’ And then a keening yowl broke free: low at first, building in volume and pitch like an air-raid siren as all those lovely chemicals got to work.
Turning his ugly mug an angry shade of baboon’s arse, screwing his eyes shut.
He folded in half, dropping the loudhailer, freeing up both hands to clutch at his burning eyes.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! JESUS, FUCK! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
Roberta snatched the loudhailer from the ground, and the flat cap from his head – exposing a huge bald spot at the back – using the tweedy fabric to wipe the loudhailer’s mouthpiece.
Then cranked up the volume and pressed the button.
‘THIS IS THE POLICE! EVERYONE STOP FIGHTING RIGHT NOW! YOU’RE ALL UNDER ARREST! ’
Which made no difference whatsoever.
Mr Frog collapsed on the pavement, curled up tight as an ammonite, hands covering his beetroot face. ‘Oh God, help me! Aaaaargh . . .!’ Deep breath. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
Good. Served him right.
‘DON’T SAY YOU WEREN’T WARNED!’ Roberta tossed the loudhailer and brought up her PAVA canister again, charging into the fight.
‘SPRAY!’ Squirting everyone in the face who came within range.
Didn’t matter if it was a T-Shirt or a Polo-Shirt, sometimes both.
Leaving a trail of scarlet-cheeked, swollen-eyed, screeching destruction in her wake.
Both sides staggered apart, clutching their burning faces. Tears streaming. Kneeling in the road – shrieking and bawling about how much it burned.
She kept going till the PAVA stopped squirting, and pressing the trigger just made farty bubbling noises.
All empty.
Roberta popped it back in its holster and surveyed her handiwork.
It was like something out of a war film – aftermath of the battle – a low-budget Bannockburn, where the cries of the injured mingled with the wails of those who wished they were dead.
Wimps.
Of the assembled riot, only five had escaped her squirty wrath: two polo-shirted gammon tosspots and three T-shirt-wearing bleeding-heart liberals.
And Tufty, of course. Who’d got his gorilla cuffed and was now rolling about on the ground struggling to restrain Little Miss Sexy-Brunette, who was resisting arrest in an extremely bitey way.
The survivors milled around, still clutching their placards like offensive weapons, everyone bleeding from bashed noses and split lips as they stared at their screaming fallen comrades.
Little Miss Sexy kicked out with her trainers, aiming to emasculate the wee loon. ‘GET OFF ME YOU PERVERT!’
‘Ow! Ow! Ow!’
Roberta rolled her eyes. ‘CONSTABLE QUIRREL! Stop mucking about and spray anyone who doesn’t give up right now!’
He wrestled his foe into an arm lock, before looking up.
‘You sure?’ Then he must’ve seen the expression on Roberta’s face because he grimaced and snapped out a crisp, ‘Yes, ma’am!
’ Before letting go of Miss Sexy-Bites and scrambling to his feet.
Backing off to a safe distance and whipping out his own PAVA spray.
Adopting a Dirty Harry pose. ‘Nobody move! Drop your weapons!’
The remaining T-and-Polo-Shirts stared at him.
‘OK.’ He shrugged and took aim.
At which point they all abandoned their placards and stuck their hands in the air.
Finally: peace.
Roberta produced her Airwave, pressing the button as she hurried back to their stabbing victim. ‘Where’s my bloody ambulance?’
After a brief visit to the corner store, Tufty had returned with a job-lot of cable-ties, vwwwwwwwwwwipping the rioters’ wrists together behind their backs.
They all sat on the pavement: Polo-Shirted protesters on one side – slumped against the cemetery wall – and the T-Shirted political volunteers on the other – like little gnomes outside the campaign office.
The ones who’d been sprayed had faces like squeezed plukes, eyes clamped shut, whimpering.
While the unsprayed moaned about their human rights and how unfair it all was.
Poor babies.
Should’ve sodding thought of that before they started beating the crap out of each other.
A woman in jeans, a yellow shirt, and her early-thirties was washing one of the T-Shirt’s faces with a milky cloth – topping it up from a two-litre container of semi-skimmed.
This dairy-based Florence Nightingale boasted a sensible haircut and a strong jaw, broad shoulders and a wide back.
The kind of biceps that suggested she could castrate six bullocks, eight pigs, and two Jehovah’s Witnesses before breakfast.
A proper farmer’s quine.
She’d worked her way around the other blubbering T-Shirts, offering words of comfort as she ministered to their puffy eyes and swollen faces.
The kids already looked a lot less tortured and beetrooty, but the Polo-Shirts were all still scarlet-faced and weeping.
And Miss Milky didn’t seem in any hurry to help them.
Meanwhile, Roberta knelt on the ground, holding the hand of a dying woman.
They’d covered Billie’s legs with one of those silvery marathon blankets, which might or might not have been helping on a baking-hot day like this. Difficult to tell. Her skin was pale as the milk being sloshed onto her friends’ faces.
Mr Rainbow-Tie kept pressure on the wound, just like Roberta had told him. Snivelling and gurning away to himself, teetering on the edge of a full-fledged bawl.
To be fair: trying to stop someone you know dying was probably pretty upsetting.
Especially if it wasn’t working . . .
Tufty appeared at Roberta’s shoulder, dangling his leftover cable-ties. ‘How is she?’
‘How do you think?’ Stupid sodding question. Roberta glanced at the line of whimpering prisoners. ‘If they decide to kick off again, that won’t hold them for long.’
‘Nope. Some big beefy backup wouldn’t hurt.’ He peered off down the road. ‘But till they get here . . .?’
Good question.
‘Set up a cordon. Should be tape in the boot.’
But instead of hopping to it, the wee loon gazed down at Billie, face as droopy as his voice. ‘Be really nice if today didn’t turn into a double feature.’
‘Yeah.’
Because one dead body was more than enough.
Tufty huffed out a breath, grimaced, then headed off to fetch the blue-and-white tape.
The farmer’s quine finished sponging milk into the last T-Shirt’s eyes and wandered over, still holding that dripping cloth and jug of milk. ‘Is Billie . . . Is she going to be OK?’
Roberta bit back the sarcasm this time. ‘She’s lost a lot of blood. Ambulance should be here any minute.’
Hopefully.
Fingers crossed.
Before it was too late . . .
The woman frowned down at the horrible tableau for a moment, then put a hand on Mr Rainbow-Tie’s shoulder. Gave it a squeeze. ‘You OK, Frank?’
His lip quivered, but he bit it and nodded. ‘She’s going to be fine. She’s going to be fine . . .’
‘Good man.’ Another squeeze. ‘You’re doing great.’ She scowled across the road at the collection of zip-tied, blubbering political casuals. ‘Do you know which one of them did it?’
Rainbow Frank shook his head, tears on their way. ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry . . .’