Being a Friday, Coldharbour Lane towards Brixton was bustling as the late shift dashed home to start their weekend, jostling with those already pursuing their night’s entertainment. Day or evening, this area felt down at heel due to its proximity to the goods yards and railway tracks criss-crossing this part of south London. Nonetheless the thoroughfare was more inviting than its near-namesake two miles to the north-east; Cold Blow Lane not only sounded grim but scrubbed up worse in reality, something Margo had discovered first-hand on those occasions she had accompanied her brother and his friends there as visiting football fans.
She hadn’t exactly anticipated a smooth trip The Den after relegation to Division Three and, sure enough, they had been subjected to non-stop spitting and southern taunts about the Miners’ Strike. Naturally County had lost the match, following which they had been obliged to sidestep a series of missiles and violent skirmishes outside. Last season however, days prior to starting her job, had been a less enjoyable experience again.
Before that game Margo’s small group had been passing along a quiet lane of low-slung terraced houses, chattering away in what with hindsight would’ve rung out as brash northern accents, when it had been necessary to reverse away from a raging firm bursting out from behind two large skips. Chased by a bunch of Neanderthals wielding assorted garden implements and baseball bats |nice touch that| she had come to realise her top sprinting speed. Backtracking a couple of streets, they succeeded only in running slap-bang into the next phase of the ambush. Meaning that for several more minutes they’d needed to press themselves into a sooty wall to avoid the hail of half-bricks coming over the top at them. A warm Millwall welcome she wouldn’t quickly forget.
҉
Margo was first to hear the unusual roaring sound.
|| Yet if you look up it’s not thundering? ||
After her ears were pricked a second time she queried whether the others noticed anything. None did although, by the time they could glimpse the overhead train lines to their right, Bobby was commenting on the perturbed expressions hurrying towards them.
As they passed the towering walls of the housing estate, now at a more hesitant pace, the noise was echoing louder. Still a hundred yards from the railway bridge, marking Brixton proper, Eileen pointed out a smashed window.
At which point a voice bawled ‘Riot!’
|Not again|
Margo’s mind jumped straight to the major disturbances of the Eighties. Truth be told she recalled little about the second one in this area, something she ascribed to beginning college and throwing herself into everything the big city had to offer. But the yell did stir up the teenaged memory of staring past their Nanna’s shoulder at a grainy News of the World photo, a close-up of a uniformed policeman with blood dripping from his head. Since those days however things had remained largely peaceable here, notwithstanding ongoing consternation over some fairly enthusiastic drug dealing. It therefore made no sense that the neighbourhood should again have flared like a tinder-box.
Then it dawned on her. Presumably this wasn’t a racial thing, rather another anti-poll tax rally spiralling out of control.
By now the breeze carried a burning smell. They approached a cluster of people who were blocking their sight, tacked to one side and nudged their way through. Scanning the scene as they passed beneath the bridge, they became aware of a teenager gesticulating and shouting.
‘Look at all that clobber they’ve got.’
Those around them also turned to the far pavement, where two men were pushing a laden shopping trolley. Tags hanging through the mesh of the cart indicated that the leather and suede goods were newly sprung from some nearby store.
For her part though Margo wasn’t focused on the garments. Instead she was staring at a ragtag dummy atop the mound. Sporting a huge grin, waving at the crowd like royalty from a coronation carriage, sat someone familiar.
In a flash she was across the road, beckoning them to a halt.
‘What in fairy fuck’s name d’you think you’re playing at?’ she hissed.
The two shoplifters tipped their human cargo out, reclaimed the long coat which had clearly only been on loan and resumed their strut down the footpath.
‘Maisie.’
The cry from the gutter was one of delight, having not seen each other since she’d departed that frigid laneway on Monday night.
‘I asked what the hell you’re doing’ she repeated in a softer tone.
‘Ah, y’know me. Saw this in my diary and managed to hitch a lift ‘ere.’
As Margo looked down she was greeted by a half-drunk bottle of Gordons and a cheeky stage wink. She couldn’t help but smile back.
‘Well I need you to get going now. And stay outta trouble, can you promise us that?’
‘Yes boss. Right away massa’ came the mock-submissive response.
She glanced about but, amid the tumult, they hadn’t attracted attention.
‘I’d be keeping me voice down if I were you’ she advised. ‘That is, if you don’t want your pasty face rearranged.’
Her concern was met with a giggle.
‘No problem. Oh yeh, there was something I needed to tell you.’
Margo wondered why in that case she hadn’t received the usual request to meet. She kept the thought to herself.
‘Which was?’
‘Oh … what the hell was it again?’
After a second or two her patience was rewarded.
‘That’s it. Hot tip. Fresh off the street.’
‘Go on.’
‘Apparently some of the old Stamford Hill crew might be seeking revenge for what went down two years back.’
‘Revenge? ʼOw so?’
‘Well it’s not entirely certain. But there’s just a chance, an ever so slight chance they may be gearing up to, y’know …’
Once more she was forced to endure an extended pause. All the while noticing an acute stench of gin.
‘… Join in a riot or something!’
The joke deserved far less than the grimace it engendered.
‘Har bloody har. Very funny. You’re a real genius and don’t you know it.’
It was time that they all moved on. She offered a hand up.
‘Off you trip then. Try not to get arrested this time.’
‘Okey doke. I’m leaving now my beloved Fuhrer.’
‘Not that way you dopey bugger, you’ll get yourself killed.’
Margo reoriented them both 180 degrees.
‘Walk ten minutes that direction. Probably twenty at speed you’ll be weaving. You can reach Kings Cross from the station what you’ll stumble on after the good left hand bend.’
Watching the reluctant trudge off, she added a rider.
‘And whatever you do, stay outta the pubs if you don’t want ʼem burning down around you.’
Margo suspected the advice would be ignored the moment her back was turned, though resolved to keep an eye out as long as possible for how blatantly this might transpire. The art of running human sources, she knew, meant evaluating personal characteristics which could be a weakness, a strength, or both. Thus in her trade it was second nature to establish what motivates an individual, then work out how to incorporate, plan around or use their idiosyncrasies. However, received wisdom had it that alcohol and reliability made for unsuitable bedfellows. And alcohol was the reason her first proposal that they consider taking this jester on had been knocked back, despite an impressive network in areas her section needed to monitor; at the time she’d felt hard done by, keen to demonstrate her potential for talent spotting in order to be fast tracked for higher responsibilities.
She had done what she could but, with the scent of chaos in the air, Margo had to return to the others, relieved that none had drifted. She re-crossed the thoroughfare, only to be met by chuckling.
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