Part 15 (1/2)
He glanced curiously at Dillon, and Ferguson said, ”Sean Dillon. He works for me.”
The Colonel's eyes seemed to widen. ”Good Lord, the the Sean Dillon? I was trying to catch you in South Armagh more years ago than I care to remember.” Sean Dillon? I was trying to catch you in South Armagh more years ago than I care to remember.”
”And thank G.o.d you didn't, Colonel.” Dillon turned to Ferguson. ”I'll see you at the car.”
It was just after three when the coach unloaded by the river, and the students joined the steady stream of people walking up Horse Guards Avenue to Whitehall. Rupert and Percy drifted along at the back, unknowingly pa.s.sing the corner where, during the Gulf War, an IRA professional named Sean Dillon had mortar-bombed Number Ten Downing Street from a white Ford Transit.
They heard a lot of noise, the babble of many voices, and when they turned the corner into Whitehall, it was already crowded with people. A line of police vehicles stretched across the road, to prevent access to the gates of Number Ten, the police all in riot gear and some of them on horseback.
The crowd surged forward, more and more people arriving and applying pressure from the back. The Oxford contingent was already splitting up, scattering throughout the crowd. Helen Quinn and Alan Grant were forced to one side and swallowed up, Rupert and Percy pushed elsewhere.
Up front, young men, faces obscured by balaclava helmets or ski masks, presented a new and sinister element: And then it happened. A petrol bomb soared from somewhere inside the crowd, hit the ground just in front of the police line, and burst into flames. There was another and yet another, as the police retreated a few yards.
The crowd roared as two more petrol bombs were thrown, and yet there was also an element of panic, a lot of people realizing they'd gotten into something worse than they had expected. Some turned and tried to work their way back, and at that moment, the mounted police charged.
They were met by a hail of missiles, but the police kept coming and burst into the front ranks, batons rising and falling. Total panic now reigned everywhere, people crying out, women screaming.
Henry Percy turned desperately, terrified. ”I can't take this. I must get out.”
For what it was worth, Rupert himself had no intention of staying. The police, after all, didn't ask questions at such affairs. The fact that you were there was enough. He was just as likely to get clubbed on the head and thrown into the back of a van, and that wouldn't do.
He said to Percy, ”Don't panic. Just follow me,” and he started back, kicking and punching his way through.
They made it to Horse Guards Avenue and joined a throng of people who were doing the same thing, most of them running. Finally, they turned out onto the main road beside the Thames and made it back to the coach. They weren't the first; at least half a dozen students were ahead of them.
Percy scrambled inside and Rupert followed. Two of the students were girls, and they were crying. The boys didn't exactly look happy, either. Percy sat, head in hands.
Rupert said to the students, ”I warned you, and you wouldn't listen.” He turned to Percy. ”G.o.d knows what's happened to the others. But that's your problem, isn't it?”
He got out, walked along the Embankment in the direction of Vauxhall Bridge, managed to hail a black cab, and told the driver to take him to South Audley Street. Kate would be pleased that it was all working so well.
It was half past four in Whitehall, people running everywhere, and Alan and Helen had been forced to shelter in a doorway with several others. He hadn't given her the drugs yet-there hadn't been time. Besides, he had other things on his mind. Helen was afraid but excited at the same time. She clutched Grant's arm, and he took half a bottle of vodka out of his pocket and unscrewed the cap. He had a very long swallow. The police were charging again, and she clutched his arm even harder. Grant felt himself getting hard. He was going to score today, he could tell-but he might as well make sure of it.
”Take it easy. Here, have a drink.”
”You know I only like white wine.”
”Come on, it'll calm you down.”
Reluctantly, she took the bottle and swallowed. It seemed to burn all the way down. ”G.o.d, that's strong.”
”Not really, it's just the taste. Have another pull.”
”No, Alan, I really don't like it.”
”Don't be silly, it'll make you feel better.”
She did as she was told.
There was another roar from the crowd as the police forced their way forward relentlessly, clubbing their way through, and now very large numbers of people were turning and fleeing.
Grant said, ”Time to go,” took her hand, and pushed his way through the crowd.
They moved down Horse Guards Avenue and made it to the Embankment. The coach was still there on the other side of the road, waiting for stragglers.
”Maybe we should go back to Oxford,” she said, feeling light-headed from the drink.
He put an arm around her rea.s.suringly.
”Come on, baby, it'll be all right. Okay, it was a piece of s.h.i.+t back there, but let's not let it spoil the weekend.”
”All right,” but there was a reluctance in her voice.
”Come on, we'll get a cab.” Which they did a few moments later.
At South Audley Street, Rupert Dauncey switched off the live coverage on television and turned to Kate.
”There they are, all running like scared rabbits.”
”I wonder what happened to the Quinn girl?”
”I'll call the place where Grant's staying and see.” He did, but the phone simply rang and rang.
He replaced the receiver and frowned, looking out at the gathering darkness of the March evening, uneasy and not really sure why.
He said to Kate, ”I think I'll go down to Ca.n.a.l Street and see if they're there. I'll use your Porsche, if that's okay.”
”Why, darling, you're taking this personally.”
”I love you, too,” he told her, and left.
In the cab, Grant remembered the Ecstasy chocolates and gave her one. He knew it was too late for Dauncey's purposes, but, h.e.l.l, now she'd really be ready. He intended to screw her brains out. And screw Dauncey, anyway. Big, self-important b.a.s.t.a.r.d, with his threats. Grant wasn't afraid of him-he had it all on tape! And on the way to the bus after leaving Dauncey, he'd run into a friend who wasn't going to the demonstration. It had been the perfect opportunity. He'd given him the pen for safekeeping and told him to stick it in Grant's mailbox. No sense risking it getting lost in the excitement.
No, Mr. Dauncey, Grant thought, grinning to himself, we'll just see who's going to be very, very sorry.
At the house in Ca.n.a.l Street, he began the wrestling with Helen Quinn on the couch. She was thoroughly drunk now and struggling, trying to avoid his kisses.
”No, Alan, I feel awful. My head's splitting.”
”You'll be all right. I'll be back in a minute.”
He went upstairs to the bathroom, trembling with excitement. He splashed his face with water, dried it, and combed his hair, and was just coming back down when he heard a sudden cry. He ran down the rest of the stairs and went into the living room.
She was writhing convulsively on the couch, her entire body shaking. ”What is it?” he cried.
When he put a hand to her face, it was burning; he saw that her eyes were bulging and then froth appeared on her mouth. It was every horror story he'd ever heard about people who got an adverse reaction to Ecstasy.
He couldn't walk out. Everyone knew they'd been together.
There was only one thing for it, St. Mark's Hospital half a mile up the High Street. If he got her there, they'd fix her. He ran to the front door, opened it and then the garage door, got into his brother's Escort and reversed out. He went back inside and helped her to her feet and looped her purse around her neck. Strangely enough, she was able to shuffle along, and he got her out of the house and into the rear seat of the Escort.