The Italian grabbed his radio and began shouting into it. ‘They are coming, but there is more trouble at the station. They will be some time yet.’
A police car flashed by on the wrong side of the road, its blue lights flashing across the front of the bar like lightning. Jarvis pulled out his phone and dialled Parry's number. ‘This is going to kick off any minute,’ he said nervously to himself. ‘Steve! What's happening? … Oh shit … No we haven't. He's still in there. Just let me know if they come this way; we're in the …’ He looked toward Fabio.
‘Via Saldra.’
‘… The Via Saldra … Oh, it's fucking marvellous. I've got a bar full of Cat Cs and street full of Cat Bs. Couldn't be better.’
He slammed his phone closed and looked at Williams. ‘They've just sent the riot police in at the station. Some locals came off a train and steamed straight in to the English. Neal's gone down there. Steve's over the back somewhere keeping an eye on a group of lads who are playing up.’
Williams let out a whistle and rubbed his head. ‘That means it can only get worse,’ he said.
The sound of singing made Jarvis look to his left as a group of men came into view. The one at the front was carrying a large Cross of St George above his head like some kind of medieval standard bearer and they were soon among the others standing outside the bar. ‘I think it just did.’
Terry Porter stood face to face with the man from the car park. Everything he despised was there right in front of him and he desperately wanted to strike out, to remove that smirk of hatred and bigotry for ever, but knew that if he moved, he was dead.
‘I asked you a question, nigger. Where d'you think you're going?’
For a split second, nothing happened and suddenly all Porter could hear was silence. Not just any silence but that special quiet you hear when something bad is about to happen. Like a car crash or a fight. When everything slows down and it's out of your control.
He stood there, waiting, and then a hand was on his shoulder wrenching him backwards, ending the moment and releasing the noise. Hawkeye again, shouting and screaming. ‘You fucking arseholes! You want some do ya! Come on then, come on!’
The two men stepped back, angry grins still fixed to their faces. ‘Well well. I never had you down as a fuckin’ nigger- lover Hawk.’
The bar was still in a state of happy chaos but now people were turning to face the stand-off. Hawkeye stood there seething, his eyes almost out on stalks. He grabbed a bottle and expertly smashed the base off on the side of a table. ‘That's fucking well it!’ he said, his voice no longer manic, but calm and confident. ‘I've had enough of you two cunts to last me for ever.’ He moved forward but Fitchett suddenly appeared and dragged him off through the crowd.
‘No Hawk! They ain't worth it.’
The two Leeds followed, bobbing angrily on their toes and shouting. Urging Fitchett to let him loose. More shouting and the sound of breaking glass. Porter looked over at them and then turned quickly towards the door. With Fitchett gone, he could get out. Escape this madness he had found himself in.
He picked up a bottle and began walking but felt something on his arm and reached across to touch it. It felt damp and he pulled his hand away and looked at it. Blood. His blood. He turned and looked into the grinning faces of the two Chelsea fans he and Fitchett had argued with at the service station earlier.
One of them held a Stanley blade in his hand. The damp edge glittering under the amber lamps. ‘Oops, sorry about that. I'm gettin’ really careless with this. I shouldn't even have it really but y'know how it is.’
Porter looked at him, trying to work out what was going on. He could see he'd been slashed but his brain wouldn't accept the information. There was no pain.
The hand shot forward and ran across his face but this time he heard the sound of tearing. Was that skin?
‘Oh, sorry. There I go again. I can't help myself.’
Porter went to speak but the second man moved forward and grabbed him. ‘Where's your mate? The mouthy cunt?’
Porter shook him off and moved backwards clutching his face. He bumped into someone who turned and shoved him angrily.
‘For fuck's sake mate watch … Oh Jesus! He's been stuck!’
Fabio looked around and pointed down the road as three sinister-looking vehicles with blacked-out windows came into view. ‘Here are the Carabinieri. Now we can clear the bar and find out who is in there.’
Jarvis looked at them. ‘Thank fuck for that.’
He watched as they stopped and about thirty men in dark uniforms spilled out, their blue helmets and long black clubs clearly visible even in the darkness of the October evening.
‘Wait here.’ Fabio ran over and had a brief conversation with one of them before hurrying back across the road. ‘I have told them about Terry; they will get him out.’
Jarvis nodded. He'd believe that when he saw it. Over the years he'd seen enough incidents like this to know that nothing was that simple.
‘We will also find out who is in there from Irriducibili,’ Fabio went on, ‘and end this.’
Jarvis looked around and gave Williams a wry grin. ‘How will they do this?’ he shouted above the noise.
Fabio turned and pointed. ‘They will stop the traffic first and then close the bar and move the people on. If they see anyone who we know, then they will be arrested.’
‘What, from Lazio?’
Fabio nodded. ‘Si. Or maybe from Roma. Who knows?’
‘And what happens if there is trouble?’
Fabio returned his eyes to the bar across the street. ‘Then we will deal with it.’
Porter stood in the middle of the bar, swaying gently. He wasn't in any pain; he just felt completely shattered. But he wasn't going down. No way. It might be taking every ounce of concentration he could muster to stay upright but he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him on the floor. At least his knee had stopped hurting now which was something. Around him, people were running about and shouting but he couldn't make out what they were saying. What was it? Something about the police? Maybe they were on to him. He blinked his eyes: everything was blurry and out of focus. Was that Fitchett, fighting in the corner with the Chelsea? And where was Billy? He hadn't seen him for a while. Since … Since when? Five minutes? Ten? Or was it longer? He felt himself being lifted up and sat down against a wall. Someone was kneeling in front of him, talking. Was it Hawkeye? He couldn't make out their faces or hear what they were saying. And now they'd gone. Well that's nice. He leant back against the hard wood panel. What was all that noise? It sounded like a train. He wasn't on a train, he was in a bar. In Rome. And what was that smell? Like pepper. It was making his nose sting. He'd smelt it before but where? Christ he was tired. He'd be glad to get home and into bed tonight. Just have a quick five minutes now though. No one'll notice.
Terry Porter closed his eyes. And the lights went out.
Chapter 19
Tuesday, 26 October
22.00
Jarvis looked on helplessly as the Italian police made yet another charge at the front of the bar. ‘This is fucking ridiculous,’ he shouted. ‘We have to get in there.’ He ran out into the road but Fabio ran after him and pulled him back.
‘The Carabinieri will not know who you are,’ he shouted. ‘You must be patient.’
‘Patient!’ yelled Jarvis above the chaos. ‘That's a fucking joke. This is a bloody shambles.’ He watched as the black sticks rained down on the bodies trying to force their way back through the door of the bar to escape the assault.
‘A shambles,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘right from the start.’ Rather than take their time, about ten policemen had simply walked up to the front of the bar and tried to move on the crowd gathering outside. The plan then being to go inside and pull out Terry Porter. But to the fans, this was the place to be. Their corner of little England in a foreign land and they weren't moving. The situation had deteriorated rapidly and Jarvis had watched while first
a hail of abuse, then a hail of glass had rained down on the Italians.
And within two minutes, there it was. Every tabloid editor's dream, England on the rampage. The police had pulled back and then gone in again. This time with the sticks, but the lads outside the bar were veterans. They'd been through all this before. Not just tonight in the backstreets of Rome, but all over Europe. For decades. They had stood firm and more glass was thrown, forcing back the police once again. The third time, the Italians had used gas. Firing it through the windows of the bar in an effort to drive out those inside but the canisters had been thrown out. And then some of the boys inside had followed. The real headcases. With scarves around their mouths keeping out smoke and the prying eyes of the media. And now it was chaos. And Porter was still inside.
He turned to make his way back to the pavement, but the sight of a TV crew caught his eye and he ran over. ‘Are you English?’ he shouted.
‘Yes, ITN.’
He pulled out his badge and held it up for them. ‘Detective Inspector Jarvis, National Football Intelligence Unit. Can you film everything that happens here? I may need it as evidence when we get home.’
The cameraman nodded and returned to his filming.
‘What's your name?’
The man holding the microphone turned to look at him. ‘Brian Mason. We work out of Grays Inn Road in London. Just ask for me when you get home.’
Jarvis patted him on the back and ran back towards Williams. From inside the bar, a low rumble began and quickly spread to outside where it grew into a roar. Jarvis had heard that same noise everywhere he'd ever been with the England fans. An ever-present soundtrack to their mayhem.
‘They're pulling back Guv,’ shouted Williams, pointing across the street as more men came pouring out of the bar to reclaim the pavement. The blue helmets drew back and were followed by a hail of glass as the England fans regrouped. A few of them, given the chance, ran off down the road to escape the carnage, but finding both ends of the road blocked turned back. Safety in numbers. But most stood firm and fought, embracing the golden rule: ‘England run from no one.’
Another roar, and this time some of the England lads ran at the police. Chasing them down the road but pulling back before they got too far.
‘Shit!’ exclaimed Williams as more police vans arrived to swell the number of blue helmets. ‘It must be about four to one now.’
Jarvis put his hands behind his head, more as a gesture of frustration than fatigue. ‘Don't feel sorry for the bastards,’ he barked. ‘They're getting exactly what they deserve. You just keep your eyes out for anyone we know.’
Williams returned his attention to the front of the bar as Jarvis scanned the street. He was trying to work out what he should do next but finally resigned himself to the fact that he couldn't do anything but wait. The police began moving down towards the bar again but this time their tactics had changed. Half of them came across the road and lined up in front of Jarvis while the others hung back. After a few long minutes, a small snatch squad ran forward and grabbed three or four of the England fans. Dragging them away and into the back of the waiting vans.
Jarvis watched as they repeated the action twice more. It was effective, but ultimately flawed. They were just taking out the people on the periphery and Jarvis knew better than most that many of them were simply there because, ironically, it was the only place where they felt safe. Even he accepted the fact that, when England were in town, police forces were indiscriminate in their treatment. Anything could happen to anyone. You just had to be English and be there.
He shouted over to Fabio, ‘We'll be here all fucking night at this rate,’ but the Italian simply held his hand up. He wasn't even listening. The snatch squad moved forward again but this time three men ran from the crowd, a large wooden table held in front of them like a huge shield. They charged at the police, ramming into them and sending them rolling back along the road.
Another roar went up and this time a large group came pouring out of the bar and sent a hail of missiles across the road towards them. Jarvis and the others jumped around as chunks of broken glass flew round their feet and shattered against the wall behind them. He waited until the bombardment had stopped and looked across the road towards the bar. This time the crew had stayed outside and were hurling abuse and gesturing frantically, geeing themselves up for the next attack.
A song broke out and quickly spread right through them and back into the confines of the bar. Angry voices singing ‘No Surrender’ and then ‘God Save the Queen’ at the tops of their voices. Arms punching the air. It was an incredible sight, broken glass and bravado. Every so often a lone figure would break out from the crew and strut around in front of the ranks, screaming obscenities and throwing missiles before sinking back into the group and anonymity. Jarvis looked over at the hordes of camera crews and journalists. They were loving every second of this. It was perfect press. The breakfast-table villains were right in front of them to be captured for posterity. They'd never live down the shame of it when they got back home but for now they were invincible, enjoying their fifteen minutes of fame.
Jarvis screwed up his eyes and peered across the road as, from inside the bar, a red light began to glow. A flare came flying out towards them, bouncing along the road and tripping over the chunks of glass and rubbish that were strewn across the tarmac. One of the blue helmets walked over and calmly picked it up, hurling it back. It came to rest against the wall under one of the broken windows, the bright red mist pouring out of it making the whole scene even more surreal than it had been before, like a kind of Dante's Inferno.
Another roar, and the police went in again, batons flailing around and the steady thud, thud of hard plastic on skin and bone. It made him wince but it worked. The crew drew back again; some got through the door but others were forced up against the wall of the bar with no escape.
Jarvis watched as more of them were dragged away. Some were clearly hurt, blood pouring from head wounds, yet all were still prey to lone swipes from angry policemen. He shook his head. This was taking too long. More vans arrived at the end of the road but suddenly, as quickly as it had begun, it was all over. The euphoria had simply evaporated, replaced by a grudging acceptance among the England fans that the line had been reached, the point made. The police poured into the bar and emptied it in seconds, shoving bodies out through the door and frog-marching them to the waiting transport, their faces unashamed and arrogant, heads held high. He'd seen it a hundred times. England run from no one.
Jarvis walked across the road searching frantically for the black face of Terry Porter. A few policemen angrily tapped their boots with their long batons as he passed, unsure if he was friend or foe, but he ignored them and carried on. His head turned from side to side in rhythm with the steady crunching of glass under his feet, looking at the faces being dragged away. Nothing. A man in a bloodied England shirt caught his eye and he stopped to look at him. He was sitting on a kerb holding the corner of his flag to his head, his face blank and exhausted. Battle fatigue.
An Italian walked up and brought his stick down heavily across the man's shoulders. He yelled out in pain and jumped up. ‘You fucking spic bastard,’ he screamed. Another thwack, this time across the arm. More expletives. A second policeman appeared and grabbed the England shirt, pulling him round and shoving him backwards up the road in the direction of the crowd of bodies waiting for transport.
The shirt stumbled and fell. Another whack, on the legs, and he was up and moving. No swearing, just speed. Jarvis watched him go and shook his head. ‘Animals,’ he said to himself, unclear if he was talking about the fans or the police.
A shout caught his attention and Jarvis looked up to see Fabio in the doorway of the bar gesturing furiously at him. He broke into a trot, stumbling through the debris and into the half-lit bar. It had been blitzed, every stick of furniture destroyed and strewn across the floor.
‘Paul!’ He turned round to where Fabio was standing. Behind him, a group
of medics were working furiously on a man in the corner. ‘Oh no!’.
He ran over and knelt down but they pushed him away. ‘How bad is he?’
Fabio put his hand on his shoulder, and he stood up. ‘He's lost a lot of blood but they think he will be OK. He was stabbed. Here and here.’
Jarvis stared as the Italian pointed to his arm and his face. Shit, not his face.
‘They will get him to hospital but it must be quick.’
‘Guv!’
Jarvis spun round to see Phil Williams in the far corner of the bar. Behind him, more medics were working. ‘It's Fitchett!’
Jarvis threaded his way through the debris and looked down. ‘He's taken a right battering and has been stabbed in the chest.’
‘Will he make it?’
Williams shrugged. ‘I don't know. They can't tell me much; their English ain't great.’
Jarvis let out a long sigh. ‘It's a fuck sight better than my Italian.’
Fabio called them over. ‘They are taking Porter to hospital now. Will you go with him?’
Jarvis thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘Yeah, of course. Did anyone get away before you arrested them?’
Fabio shook his head. ‘I do not think so. There is a back door but it is locked. I think the owner went that way. We are taking the prisoners to a place near Fiumicino, the airport.
They will be held there tonight until the magistrate can deal with them in the morning.’
Jarvis nodded. ‘We must find Evans and another man who was with him. I think his name is Hawkins. They will know what happened in here.’ He ran his hand up the side of his head. It was hard to believe that so much damage had been done in so short a time. ‘Fuck it. As long as you've got them in custody, they can stew till the morning.’ He went to leave but turned back. ‘By the way, were your Italians in here?’
Fabio shook his head. ‘Not that we could find. They may have got out with the owner but…’