‘Fuck me sis. Just ʼow many soap dodgers do you know in this badass town?’
Although Bobby gave her a brief look, thankfully Charlie was the sole person who commented on the exchange with her homeless contact. Margo brushed past without answering, searching for a path through the mayhem.
To the left, a row of police were battling to contain a mob on their far side. Close to some Black Flag she recognised was one of the females from the 121 Centre a few hours earlier. Hopping from leg to leg, next thing the girl ran screaming through a gap in the mêlée. Of particular note was the molotov cocktail attached to the end of her throwing arm
|Wonderful. One more nutcase for us to identify|
Although she had shaped to toss the device towards them there was no obvious flash around where it ought to have landed. A split second later though she began madly slapping at her dreadlocks
|And as we speak Bob Marley is turning in his grave at another pale imitation of the Rastafari dream|
Margo knew The Fridge was only 250 yards away as the crow flies, beyond The Atlantic pub. In the present circumstances however it remained out of sight and frustratingly out of reach.
Wielding pikes fashioned from upturned placards, a dozen or so individuals blocked the road ahead. Behind them a phalanx of young stone-throwers appeared ill-disciplined but were managing to hurl an energetic shower at the massed ranks of the constabulary. Although the heavier artillery was dropping short, small fragments of rock were skipping along the tarmac near their feet.
Not for a moment did it cross Margo’s mind that any of her party might prefer to give up on their evening. From hours of studying her A to Z directory, if they were to retrace their steps she could picture two alternate routes to reach the club. Yet both would involve a long detour, without guarantee the path would be clearer or less dangerous.
Gauging a relative lull in hostilities she guided them into the street off to their right. While not devoid of menace, the atmosphere here on Atlantic Road wasn’t as intense as they’d just left behind. Passing the padlocked markets she decided to steer them into a second turn, a left this time. Maintaining their pace they carved through the cold air trapped by the five-storey terraces looming on both sides. Usually she’d enjoy watching Charlie’s eyes roll as she explained the origins of Electric Avenue’s fame |tad ironic given the gloom| a whole century before Eddy Grant name-checked it in his song.
But before she had a chance, a youth burst out at them. With his spotty face twisted in hostility, Margo veered in front of Charlie and instinctively feinted right. As he drew back his arm she sprang in the opposite direction. Grounding herself low she poked out a leg, less a kick than a solid jab with the sole of her Doc Martens. Making contact with a bony hip, the force was enough to send someone unbalanced reeling into the adjacent wall.
From the resounding smack she knew their attacker would need a couple of seconds to establish if the pain was temporary or whether she’d cracked a rib. Either way she guessed he’d not be thrilled. And though he didn’t exactly look the type to have friends, in this environment others might also be sufficiently fired up to go after an easy target.
‘Quick. Down ʼere’ Margo bellowed.
Accelerating around a right-hand curve they exploded out into the expanse of Brixton Road, which provided an instant sense of sanctuary. Eileen bent double, one arm bracing against an advertising hoarding as she dry-retched an acrid smell of bile. Almost immediately she straightened herself up and walked on ahead, sucking air into her lungs.
As they made for the main junction Margo was able to take stock. Logic told her the flashpoint for a poll tax demo would most likely be Town Hall, whose prominent clock tower stood in the semi-distance. Yet from the ongoing reverberations it seemed the worst of the trouble lay to their left, back down Coldharbour Lane. There again, from the manner in which people had begun streaming round the corner near the Ritzy cinema, she guessed the crowd were in the process of being dispersed and that policemen on horseback would soon be charging in hot pursuit.
As a kid, Margo had witnessed a grown man being knocked cold after being glanced by a mounted officer travelling at barely a trot. Then she herself had come within a hair’s breadth of being trampled when, during the mandatory pre-match escort from the train station, she tried to avoid being herded with the other County supporters into a narrowing pedestrian tunnel. Thus, as an adult, she maintained a resolute policy of distrusting all giant beasts with flaring nostrils. Especially any with a copper on board, desperate to air his long truncheon.
Clicking once more into auto pilot Margo shouted at them to follow. Grabbing the sleeve of a tiring Charlie she dashed diagonally across the broad avenue. As they reached the opposite pavement, space was already being squeezed by fast-retreating protesters. Their ears under assault, she practically flung them up the next side street. So intent was she on getting them off the main road she had to hurdle a man stumbling to the ground, blood at one temple, before she regained her footing and pushed them down Brighton Terrace. Close by there was a loud bang and, a moment later, pieces of brick and mortar came skittering past.
They drove forwards, staying clear of bands of brooding young men now piling out of the low blocks of flats and striding towards the action. But just a short distance on it was as if they’d entered a wormhole in time. At the gardens which opened out to their right, they dropped to a gentle jog. The golden eyes of wallflowers winked at their bemused faces, while a sweetness wafted from patches of yellow and purple crocuses. They stared as an elderly gentleman appeared at the front door of a squat Georgian terrace and serenely carried a bag of rubbish through his small front yard to a roadside bin. Watching a dog nonchalantly cock its leg against a gate post, Margo realised the cacophony could no longer be heard. Her pounding heartbeat slowed rapidly, as Charlie did the rounds for hugs.
‘Bugger me Margo. Aren’t you the all action hero?’ cried out Eileen.
Still panting, Charlie made eye contact although neither said anything as the compliments flowed.
‘Did you see how she dropped that feller? For a split second I thought she was gonna rip his arms off and slap him around with the soggy bits.’
Chatting animatedly the three allowed themselves to be led at a gentle pace across Acre Lane and into another tranquil back street. Margo was waiting for Eileen to quiz her as to why she’d approached one of the crusties back by the railway bridge however, amidst all the excitement, the question failed to materialise. When it did surface, as the law of subconscious reflection dictated it must, she trusted the coaching she’d subjected Charlie to would see it deflected effectively.
‘Poll tax, poleaxe’ chanted Eileen on loop as they continued towards the club.
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