manage that.’
The shutters began rattling down over the cracked and broken glass. But then Maninder, whose eyes were still fixed on the people outside, realized what they were doing. They’d lifted the table, turned it round and were smashing it against the window like a battering ram: once . . . twice . . .
Ajay aimed the fire extinguisher at the flickering flames on the supermarket floor. The shutters were coming down but they seemed to be taking an age.
Three times . . . four . . .
Maninder cursed himself for his foolhardy optimism. Most mini-supermarkets like his had shelves running along their outside wall – even if it was windowed. Their owners wanted to use every square millimetre of space to sell more goods. But Maninder had said no, it was better to let customers walking down the road look in and see all the wonderful things they had on offer. He had won the argument, but now he wished that he hadn’t. He felt horribly exposed by the huge pane of glass that covered almost the entire frontage of the store, and he longed for a long, tall, heavy line of shelves to act as a wall against the evil of the outside world.
Five . . . six . . .
The flames were out. The shutters were almost down to the level of the table. If they could cover the window before the table broke through it . . .
But that wasn’t going to happen. The table broke through, the entire window shattered and the table was left half in and half out of the shop just as the shutters reached it, hit the table top and came to a grinding halt.
Seconds later there were rioters scrambling under the stranded shutters and Ajay was lashing out at them and shouting at him to get the gun.
Maninder knew what he had to do. That gun was their only hope. But somehow he couldn’t reach for it. He was paralysed. And meanwhile more and more rioters were coming through the window. Ajay was being driven back.
Only then did it occur to Maninder that there was one obvious thing he should have done the minute he saw the two shoplifters acting suspiciously: call the police. He dialled 999 . . . and all he got was a pre-recorded message saying that the line was experiencing an exceptionally heavy volume of calls. He was offered a menu of options for leaving messages. Or he could dial 0 and wait for an operator. But the phone seemed to ring for ever without a response.
No one was going to answer.
The police weren’t going to come.
All the other members of the Netherton Street Self-Help Association were too busy dealing with their own problems to worry about his.
And the Lion Market would soon be overrun.
24
RANDOM WAS WELL pleased with the scenes he was getting on his head cam. It was more like a party than anything. Everyone was loaded. They went charging into shops and takeaways shouting at the top of their voices, waving knives and crowbars above their heads, some of them pulling faces for the camera. They’d grab whatever they wanted and scare the shit out of everyone in the place. Nothing heavy – just aim a kick or a punch at people as they ran away, maybe cop a feel of the girls’ arses and tits. A few of the lads had guns, but they were just firing them in the air, mostly, blowing holes in ceilings and smashing plate-glass windows. It was all a big laugh, really. Even when they were setting places on fire it seemed like a bit of a lark.
Then they got to this curry house called the Khyber Star. In they went, kicking over tables, sending plates of chicken tikka and pints of beer flying. There were only half a dozen punters in here, and they were bricking it. The women were screaming. The men were dragging them to the door, trying to make them shut up. One of the men slipped on the curry sauce lying on the floor, fell over and got a good kicking before he managed to crawl away. All the waiters had gone behind the bar, trying to get out of the way. But then Random saw one of them, this skinny little Bangladeshi geezer, reach down below the bar and pull
The shutters began rattling down over the cracked and broken glass. But then Maninder, whose eyes were still fixed on the people outside, realized what they were doing. They’d lifted the table, turned it round and were smashing it against the window like a battering ram: once . . . twice . . .
Ajay aimed the fire extinguisher at the flickering flames on the supermarket floor. The shutters were coming down but they seemed to be taking an age.
Three times . . . four . . .
Maninder cursed himself for his foolhardy optimism. Most mini-supermarkets like his had shelves running along their outside wall – even if it was windowed. Their owners wanted to use every square millimetre of space to sell more goods. But Maninder had said no, it was better to let customers walking down the road look in and see all the wonderful things they had on offer. He had won the argument, but now he wished that he hadn’t. He felt horribly exposed by the huge pane of glass that covered almost the entire frontage of the store, and he longed for a long, tall, heavy line of shelves to act as a wall against the evil of the outside world.
Five . . . six . . .
The flames were out. The shutters were almost down to the level of the table. If they could cover the window before the table broke through it . . .
But that wasn’t going to happen. The table broke through, the entire window shattered and the table was left half in and half out of the shop just as the shutters reached it, hit the table top and came to a grinding halt.
Seconds later there were rioters scrambling under the stranded shutters and Ajay was lashing out at them and shouting at him to get the gun.
Maninder knew what he had to do. That gun was their only hope. But somehow he couldn’t reach for it. He was paralysed. And meanwhile more and more rioters were coming through the window. Ajay was being driven back.
Only then did it occur to Maninder that there was one obvious thing he should have done the minute he saw the two shoplifters acting suspiciously: call the police. He dialled 999 . . . and all he got was a pre-recorded message saying that the line was experiencing an exceptionally heavy volume of calls. He was offered a menu of options for leaving messages. Or he could dial 0 and wait for an operator. But the phone seemed to ring for ever without a response.
No one was going to answer.
The police weren’t going to come.
All the other members of the Netherton Street Self-Help Association were too busy dealing with their own problems to worry about his.
And the Lion Market would soon be overrun.
24
RANDOM WAS WELL pleased with the scenes he was getting on his head cam. It was more like a party than anything. Everyone was loaded. They went charging into shops and takeaways shouting at the top of their voices, waving knives and crowbars above their heads, some of them pulling faces for the camera. They’d grab whatever they wanted and scare the shit out of everyone in the place. Nothing heavy – just aim a kick or a punch at people as they ran away, maybe cop a feel of the girls’ arses and tits. A few of the lads had guns, but they were just firing them in the air, mostly, blowing holes in ceilings and smashing plate-glass windows. It was all a big laugh, really. Even when they were setting places on fire it seemed like a bit of a lark.
Then they got to this curry house called the Khyber Star. In they went, kicking over tables, sending plates of chicken tikka and pints of beer flying. There were only half a dozen punters in here, and they were bricking it. The women were screaming. The men were dragging them to the door, trying to make them shut up. One of the men slipped on the curry sauce lying on the floor, fell over and got a good kicking before he managed to crawl away. All the waiters had gone behind the bar, trying to get out of the way. But then Random saw one of them, this skinny little Bangladeshi geezer, reach down below the bar and pull
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