lot.’
‘Oh yes?’ he asked cynically. ‘I don’t think there’ll be much left when I’ve paid off Dan.’
‘But I thought he was doing the show for nothing,’ Carole objected.
‘Oh yes, the show . No, the generous-hearted Dan Poke, television’s Mr Lovable, didn’t ask for any fee. Just expenses . . .’
Jude caught on to the implication of this before Carole did. ‘You mean, the limousine?’
Ted Crisp nodded savagely and turned towards her. Jude got a blast of Famous Grouse into her face. Oh no, had he tried to anaesthetize his humiliation with whisky? ‘Yes’ said Ted.
‘Mind you, the limousine’s only taking him to Brighton, where he’s booked in overnight at the Hotel Du Vin – apparently he’s got some woman set up there – and
then the limousine will take him tomorrow morning back up to his pad in London. All that on expenses.’
‘But how much is it all going to cost?’ asked Carole, appalled.
‘Certainly more than I’ll get for all the pints I’ve pulled this evening. And, of course, he’s cleaned up on selling all his books and DVDs and other tat. No, our Mr Poke
is a very smooth operator.’
It was not Carole Seddon’s custom to use strong language, but she couldn’t help herself from echoing Ted’s ‘Bastard!’
They might have got further into the perfidious economics of charity work, but they were interrupted by the sound of a beer bottle smashing. Before they had had time to react, there was another
smash and a great welling of feral shouting from the crowd. A fight had started. The bikers were pushing to get as near as possible to the action, and the Fethering residents as far away. They
bumped into each other and more drunken blows were thrown. The steamy heaviness of the July day had erupted into full-scale violence.
‘God, this is all I bloody need!’ said Ted Crisp, before throwing himself into the mêlée. His intention was to separate the combatants, but the tensions of the day
– not to mention the large amounts of Famous Grouse he had ingested – meant that he swung his fists as ferociously as any of them.
‘No,’ murmured Carole. ‘If Ted gets himself arrested for being in a fight, he’s finished.’
It was almost impossible to see what was going on. The outside coach lamps of the Crown and Anchor had been smashed as soon as the violence started, and into the strips of light thrown out by
the open doors heaving masses of bodies swayed and rushed to and fro, arms, beer bottles and chairlegs flying. Windows had been smashed, window-boxes ripped from their fittings and hurled about.
Shouting, grunting filled the air. Shafts of light revealed splashes of blood on summer T-shirts. Knives had been drawn.
Jude looked around, wondering whether the scarred man or Viggo had initiated the violence, but she could see no sign of either of them in the struggling mêlée. Like all fights, this
one was ugly and incompetent, but that didn’t stop people from getting hurt.
Even before the whine of a police siren was heard, Jude had pulled her neighbour by the hand and whispered urgently, ‘Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here!’
‘But Ted . . .’ Carole murmured pitifully. ‘Ted . . .’
Jude dragged her away. By now the police Panda was in the car park, blue lights strobing across the chaos. ‘Round the back way,’ hissed Jude. As they moved, they heard the first roar
of a motorbike engine starting. The leather-clad brigade weren’t planning to stay to be interviewed by the police. Other engines roared and throbbed in the night air.
It was a momentary shock to realize that the motorbikes were coming in their direction. Rather than risking being stopped at the entrance to the Crown and Anchor car park, the bikers were going
to make good their getaway across the dunes. Carole and Jude shrank against the back of the pub as the cavalcade thundered past. Incongruously, in their midst, also making its off-road escape, was
a silver Smart car.
‘Oh yes?’ he asked cynically. ‘I don’t think there’ll be much left when I’ve paid off Dan.’
‘But I thought he was doing the show for nothing,’ Carole objected.
‘Oh yes, the show . No, the generous-hearted Dan Poke, television’s Mr Lovable, didn’t ask for any fee. Just expenses . . .’
Jude caught on to the implication of this before Carole did. ‘You mean, the limousine?’
Ted Crisp nodded savagely and turned towards her. Jude got a blast of Famous Grouse into her face. Oh no, had he tried to anaesthetize his humiliation with whisky? ‘Yes’ said Ted.
‘Mind you, the limousine’s only taking him to Brighton, where he’s booked in overnight at the Hotel Du Vin – apparently he’s got some woman set up there – and
then the limousine will take him tomorrow morning back up to his pad in London. All that on expenses.’
‘But how much is it all going to cost?’ asked Carole, appalled.
‘Certainly more than I’ll get for all the pints I’ve pulled this evening. And, of course, he’s cleaned up on selling all his books and DVDs and other tat. No, our Mr Poke
is a very smooth operator.’
It was not Carole Seddon’s custom to use strong language, but she couldn’t help herself from echoing Ted’s ‘Bastard!’
They might have got further into the perfidious economics of charity work, but they were interrupted by the sound of a beer bottle smashing. Before they had had time to react, there was another
smash and a great welling of feral shouting from the crowd. A fight had started. The bikers were pushing to get as near as possible to the action, and the Fethering residents as far away. They
bumped into each other and more drunken blows were thrown. The steamy heaviness of the July day had erupted into full-scale violence.
‘God, this is all I bloody need!’ said Ted Crisp, before throwing himself into the mêlée. His intention was to separate the combatants, but the tensions of the day
– not to mention the large amounts of Famous Grouse he had ingested – meant that he swung his fists as ferociously as any of them.
‘No,’ murmured Carole. ‘If Ted gets himself arrested for being in a fight, he’s finished.’
It was almost impossible to see what was going on. The outside coach lamps of the Crown and Anchor had been smashed as soon as the violence started, and into the strips of light thrown out by
the open doors heaving masses of bodies swayed and rushed to and fro, arms, beer bottles and chairlegs flying. Windows had been smashed, window-boxes ripped from their fittings and hurled about.
Shouting, grunting filled the air. Shafts of light revealed splashes of blood on summer T-shirts. Knives had been drawn.
Jude looked around, wondering whether the scarred man or Viggo had initiated the violence, but she could see no sign of either of them in the struggling mêlée. Like all fights, this
one was ugly and incompetent, but that didn’t stop people from getting hurt.
Even before the whine of a police siren was heard, Jude had pulled her neighbour by the hand and whispered urgently, ‘Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here!’
‘But Ted . . .’ Carole murmured pitifully. ‘Ted . . .’
Jude dragged her away. By now the police Panda was in the car park, blue lights strobing across the chaos. ‘Round the back way,’ hissed Jude. As they moved, they heard the first roar
of a motorbike engine starting. The leather-clad brigade weren’t planning to stay to be interviewed by the police. Other engines roared and throbbed in the night air.
It was a momentary shock to realize that the motorbikes were coming in their direction. Rather than risking being stopped at the entrance to the Crown and Anchor car park, the bikers were going
to make good their getaway across the dunes. Carole and Jude shrank against the back of the pub as the cavalcade thundered past. Incongruously, in their midst, also making its off-road escape, was
a silver Smart car.
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