Jarvis looked at him. ‘Trouble?’
‘Yes. In Italy clubs have always erm … chiudono un occhio …’ He struggled for the words, his eyes registering his frustration. ‘… Not looked out … You have a saying for it …’
‘Turned a blind eye!’ said Williams excitedly.
‘Si, turned a blind eye. Yes. They have always turned a blind eye to the Ultras but now it is getting more difficult for them to do that. Their demands are growing and the clubs must follow the rules of the Federazione di Calcio which say that they must not deal with them.’
‘The Feder … what?’
Fabio looked at Williams. ‘Our association of football,’ he said patiently.
‘Ah, right. But what kind of demands do they make?’
‘Free tickets, and travel of course. At some clubs they very powerful and will demand that certain players are sold if they do not like them.’
‘And the clubs go along with that?’
‘Si. The threat of violence is not unknown if they do not get what they want.’
Williams let out a low whistle. ‘Wow. I can't see that happening at Chelsea. Ken Bates scares the shit out of me!’
Fabio turned back to face the front and watched as the group vanished into the cafe. ‘Maybe that is who is behind all of this. Irriducibili want to stop the match as a protest. So that the game will listen to them. Yes, that could be it.’ He looked towards Jarvis for some kind of endorsement but it never came. He was too busy looking at Porter and Fitchett who were standing next to the coach. ‘Your officer, he looks in a bad way.’
Jarvis turned his head towards the Italian. ‘Yes, he is. And I want him out, right now.’ He went to jump out of the car but Fabio grabbed him and pulled him back.
‘No, not yet,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We must know who else is in there first.’
Jarvis looked at him, his face a picture of shock. ‘Are you mental, send a black policeman into a pub full of fascists? They've already given him a hiding; this time they'll bloody kill him!’
Before Fabio could speak, he turned and barked at Williams sitting in the back. ‘Phil, get out there and grab him before he gets into that bar.’ Williams dived for the door and got out.
‘No!’ shouted the Italian and began speaking quickly into his radio. A voice answered but Jarvis couldn't work out if there was any urgency in it or not. Italian always sounded like it was being spoken at breakneck speed to him. Fabio threw down the radio and dived out of the car after Williams, who was walking quickly through the milling pedestrians towards the back of the bus. Jarvis watched him for a second and then flung open the door and stood up. He wanted to run down the road after them but held back. If anyone came out and sussed them now, they were all history.
Porter leant against the back of the coach and watched as the final few men disappeared into the cafe. ‘That's it, I'm out of here.’
‘You what?’
Porter shook his head. ‘I'm not going in there, Fitchett. It's too dangerous. Let's get out while we still can.’
Fitchett grabbed hold of his jacket and pulled him angrily towards him. ‘Forget it, filth. You're coming in there with me or I'll fucking do you myself, right here.’
Porter tried to shove him off but the pain in his leg was draining all his energy and he gave up. Almost hanging limply from his clenched fist. A woman looked at them as Fitchett began dragging the weakened body across the pavement towards the cafe, but he returned her look of concern with a glare and she hurried on. ‘Come on Detective Sergeant,’ he growled, ‘you've come this far, let's see what you're really made of shall we?’
A voice hissed at them and they both looked round. ‘Terry, come on, you've gotta get out!’
‘Phil! Thank fuck for that!’
Fitchett relaxed his grip and waited until Williams was almost upon them before diving forward and butting the young DC full in the face. The ferocity of the blow sent his head flying backwards, but as he struggled to keep his balance, Fitchett followed up and smashed him in the side of the head with his elbow. The sickening thud made Porter wince but even before Williams had struck the ground, Fitchett had hit him again, this time a kick full in the stomach, the involuntary wail showing just how much damage it had done. When the body was still, Fitchett looked up and glanced around. Pedestrians were running away from him, their furtive glances failing to disguise their fear or hide their disgust. They had been reading about the English hooligans in the papers all week and now here they were, fighting on the streets in front of them.
But Fitchett didn't notice them; he never did. Like pedestrians everywhere, from Camden to Copenhagen, they were just scenery. He wasn't interested in them. He turned to walk back to Porter but a sixth sense developed in a thousand street brawls made him look round as another man came towards him but stopped and held up his hands in mock surrender. Fitchett lifted up his arm and pointed to him, the gesture as threatening as any weapon ever was. ‘I don't know who you are but just turn round and fuck off, or you'll get the same.’
He stood for a second, his eyes boring through the man in front of him, daring him to come forward. And then, when he was sure that the message had got through, he took a step backwards and, without taking his eyes off the man in front of him, grabbed Porter and began dragging him backwards. ‘Come on you, you're coming with me.’ And then they vanished, through the doors and into the noise and neon of the bar.
Fabio ran forward and leant down beside Williams. He was just starting to come round and, after shaking his head, sat up with a groan and put his hand to his face. ‘Fucking hell, what hit me?’
‘We must get you out of here,’ urged Fabio. ‘Can you move?’
Williams struggled to his feet and they began walking towards the car. Jarvis met them halfway and, without a word, dived under his DC's left arm and lifted him up to speed their progress. When they were safely back inside the Fiat, Jarvis turned angrily to Fabio, but before he could start, the Italian began.
‘You shouldn't have done that Paul, it was stupid!’ he shouted. ‘You could have put my whole operation at risk.’
Jarvis glared at him. ‘What do you mean, your operation?’
The Italian looked at him and raised an eyebrow. ‘This is Rome, Paul, you have no power here.’
Jarvis almost exploded with rage. ‘Listen, one of my officers is inside that bar over there and he's in great danger. I don't give a fuck what you say, we're going to get him out right now.’
Fabio looked towards the back of the car. ‘What, you and a policeman who has just been badly beaten? And how do you plan to do that Paul? Like your SAS?’
Jarvis lowered his eyes for a second and took a deep breath to calm himself down. He was right of course, and this ranting was getting them nowhere. It certainly wasn't helping Porter. ‘Look Fabio,’ he said, using his name for the first time, something that did not escape the notice of either Williams or the Italian. ‘He is my man and I am responsible for him. If we don't get him out soon who knows what will happen.’
Fabio looked at him for a moment and nodded. ‘OK. But this area is very dangerous for us now.’ He turned and started the car. ‘I have called for help but we must wait and we have to get the car away from here.’
Jarvis looked up as two police cars sped past and disappeared into the traffic in front of them, their blue lights and howling sirens sending an ominous sense of foreboding through the half-lit streets.
Fabio pulled the car away from the kerb and headed after them. ‘I think the next few hours are going to be very bad.’
Jarvis turned and watched as the bar receded into the distance behind him. ‘Yeah, but bad for who?’
Chapter 18
Tuesday, 26 October
20.45
Porter felt the door slam shut behind him and he realised that Fitchett had just removed his final hope of escape. Now, whatever happened, he was alone, his fate in his own hands. He finally summoned up the strength to pull away from Fitchett's gri
p and stumbled over to a table and sat down. He could tell by the pain and the swelling that his leg was getting worse, and after looking at it for a moment he let out a curse and lit himself a cigarette. The hot nicotine helped calm his nerves a little and so he looked up and, for the first time, studied the scene surrounding him. It was all dark brown wood, brass fittings and amber lighting. Classically Italian, and normally quite beautiful, but now plain ugly. Polluted by the forty or so Englishmen demanding drink from the small number of apron-clad waiters who scuttled around them. Shouting and screaming, the noise was oppressive.
‘That's why everyone hates the English,’ he thought. ‘We're all so fucking ugly we destroy anything beautiful just by being near it.’ He glanced towards the door but Fitchett was still there, glaring at him and making sure he didn't sneak out.
‘You all right Terry?’ He turned to find Hawkeye standing over him, a bottle of beer in each hand and a freshly lit cigarette hanging grimly from his bottom lip. He held out a drink and Porter took it with a curt nod of his head.
For a second, he considered telling him he was a policeman and that this whole plan had been uncovered but quickly put the idea aside. He still harboured hopes that eventually he would get out of this in one piece, so why commit suicide now? ‘Yeah, as long as I don't have to stand up I'll be fucking marvellous.’
Hawkeye gave him a grin and then looked up at Fitchett. ‘What's up with him? He looks like he's got the right arsehole.’
Porter shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fuck knows, PMT probably. Pre-match tension.’ They both laughed and Porter started to relax a little more.
‘Back in a minute,’ shouted Hawkeye above the din and Porter watched as he vanished into the melee before returning to his cigarette and his bad knee. Then he glanced across at Fitchett and remembered what he'd done to poor Phil Williams outside. Poor bastard; he hoped he was all right. Fitchett would pay for that as well. He suddenly realised that if Williams had been outside, then Jarvis and the others would be as well. And if they'd tried to get him out once, then they would certainly try again. He took a long drink and relaxed a little more. Yeah, it would only be a matter of time now.
The gaunt features of Hawkeye fought their way back through the crowd and stopped beside him. ‘Where's Billy? You seen ‘im Terry?’
‘No. Now you mention it I ain't seen him since we got here.’
Hawkeye shrugged his shoulders and scanned the crowd. ‘Maybe he's slipped out. I know he booked this place special but I think we were supposed to be meeting some spics here or something.’
‘And they haven't turned up?’
Hawkeye shook his head and continued looking around the room. ‘No, apart from the waiters, the place was empty when we got here.’ A look of relief suddenly crossed his face and he shouted out. ‘There he is! Oi, Billy you cunt! Get over here.’
Evans came walking over, a nervous smile on his face. ‘All right lads? Just been outside, the old sirens are working overtime.’
Hawkeye's eyebrows flew up. ‘What? Is it kicking off then?’
‘Think so. They're only over the back somewhere,’ he said, gesturing towards the back of the bar.
Hawkeye smiled and took a mouthful of beer. ‘Fucking top.’
Jarvis stood beside the car and looked around. They'd travelled about four hundred yards and Fabio had pulled over and parked. The traffic was mad and the noise manic, the drivers hammering their car horns and creeping forward to steal that extra inch, get home that extra milli-second early.
‘How do you live with this?’ he asked Fabio.
‘It is always the same. We are used to it.’
Jarvis shook his head and bent down to look at Williams in the back seat. ‘You OK?’
The young DC nodded. ‘I'll live.’
The sound of a siren broke out above the general chaos and Jarvis instinctively turned towards it. It was close.
‘It is getting tense, yes?’
He looked at the Italian and nodded. He could feel it. The electricity of aggression and fear that filled the air and set the nerves on fire. Airborne adrenalin he called it, and it was like an old friend. He'd felt it at almost every game he'd ever been at. From Stamford Bridge to the San Siro. ‘We should get back,’ he said, without looking round. ‘I don't like the look of this at all.’
‘Paul, your phone …’
He turned round and then reached into his pocket and opened his phone with a shake of his head. He hadn't heard a thing. ‘Hello.’
‘Guv, it's Steve Parry. Listen, we're with the Italians in a street called the Via Veneto or something and it's all kicked off.’
Jarvis listened intently. Behind Parry's voice he could hear the all too familiar noise of breaking glass and shouting.
‘The Italians have gone in and made some arrests but the fans around here are really wound up. Some guys from Sky have told me there's been some trouble at the station as well. It's gonna be a long night.’
‘Just keep me informed Steve, all right?’
‘Sure. Where are you?’
Jarvis looked around. ‘Judging by the sirens, not far from you.’
‘OK, gotta go.’
Jarvis closed the phone and looked at Fabio. He was speaking on the radio again and so he leant into the car. ‘It's going off all over Phil. I've got to get back down there and get Terry out. You'd better stay here.’
Williams struggled out of the car and stood up. ‘No, I'm all right honest. Just a sore head.’
Fabio came round the car. ‘The situation is bad. There are now large numbers of local fans coming into the area and one English person has already been stabbed. I think we must get to Bar San Marco quickly.’
They began walking down the road towards the bar, all the time straining to hear any noise above the traffic. Once or twice, they heard the scream of sirens in the next street and at one point Jarvis stopped and looked towards the skyline. He could have sworn he had heard the low rumble of thunder. Or had it been a roar?
Jarvis bit his lip and hastened his pace. He knew that, once trouble started, it inevitably got worse until the police really came down heavy on the hard-core. Usually, the problem was finding where that hard-core were, but this time Jarvis knew exactly. They were inside Bar San Marco. Forty of the worst hooligans England had to offer. They might not have been involved in any trouble yet, but he knew that wherever in the world they were, England fans were instinctively drawn towards each other. It was an inevitable peculiarity but at the centre were always the Category Cs. The serious players. Like the queen ant throwing out orders from the nest while the soldiers ran around and did all the dirty work. He smiled at the analogy and then thought about Porter and hurried on.
Hawkeye had returned with more drink. ‘I don't know about you, but I'm fucking starving.’
Porter sighed heavily: food was the last thing on his mind. He was more concerned with the pressing matter of survival. The door flew open and he looked up as three men came hurrying in. They looked harassed, or was it frightened? - he couldn't make out which - and began talking excitedly to anyone who would listen. Hawkeye moved over towards them and then quickly returned.
‘Fuck me,’ he said excitedly. ‘It's all kicked off in the next street. The fucking locals are revolting.’
News of the trouble spread through the bar like a whirlwind and, almost immediately, the level of noise rose and the atmosphere changed. It was no longer jovial: now it was aggressive, xenophobic. As if sensing the change, the waiters vanished, leaving the place in the control of the owner who remained resolutely behind the bar like the captain of some sinking ship.
Porter looked around anxiously. Surely this was the last thing Billy Evans wanted tonight. After all, trouble here would just draw attention to them and that would have a knock-on effect. The police would be all over them before the game tomorrow. More men came into the bar, but this time, as the door swung open, he noticed that there were others milling around outside. He stood up and looked through the
windows. There were about thirty lads out there. Talking excitedly among themselves and winding themselves up for later on. But their body language gave away their unease. Their heads were constantly moving. Watching the street for the first sign of trouble. Their expressions an odd mixture of bravado and fear.
‘Bollocks,’ thought Porter before turning his head and searching for Fitchett. He was still by the door, talking urgently to one of the men who had just come in. ‘No Surrender, No Surrender, No Surrender to the IRA … cunts? He nervously lit a cigarette and looked around. Everyone was laughing except him, getting off on the buzz of violence. This was what they lived for - or was it lived off? The feeling that someone was looking at him made him turn towards the bar and he caught sight of Evans sitting on a table. He was talking to the two Leeds fans from the car park, and every so often one of them glanced in his direction.
The realisation struck him like a thunderbolt. ‘The bastard's setting me up!’ That was it. ‘Now or never,’ he thought, and limped casually towards the door. Fitchett saw him and turned to block his path. The slight shake of his head and the dull look in his eyes said it all. He was going nowhere.
Suddenly, a hand spun him round and he felt a blast of hot, beer-laden breath on his face. ‘Where the fuck are you going nigger?’
‘Bollocks!’ Jarvis stopped and looked at the group milling around outside Bar San Marco. ‘That's all we bloody need.’ There were about thirty now, and the doors had been wedged open so God knew how many were inside. The sound of singing broke out again, more verbal adrenalin to build up the courage. The three of them ran through the still slow- moving traffic and across the road, distance the best protection they had for the moment. ‘Where the fuck are your men?’ he shouted at Fabio.