“Yeah. Jack Rigano. He’s the boss here. Good bloke.”
One of the junior officers handed Rigano a bullhorn. He put it to his lips and spoke. Through the distortion, Lindsay made out, “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve had your fun. You have five minutes to disperse. If you fail to do so, my officers have orders to arrest everyone. Please don’t think about causing any more trouble tonight. We have already called for reinforcements and I warn you that everyone will be treated with equal severity unless you disperse at once. Thank you and goodnight.”
Lindsay couldn’t help grinning at his words. At once the RABD protesters, unused to the mechanics of organized dissent, began to move away, talking discontentedly among themselves. The more experienced peace women sat tight, singing defiantly. Lindsay turned to Gavin and said, “Go after the RABD lot and see if you can get a couple of quotes. I’ll speak to the cops and the peace women. Meet me by that phone box on the corner in ten minutes. We’ll have to get some copy over quickly.”
She quickly walked over to the superintendent and dug her union Press Card out of her pocket. “Lindsay Gordon. Daily Clarion,” she said. “Can I have a comment on this incident?”
Rigano looked down at her and smiled grimly. “You can say that the police have had everything under control and both sets of demonstrators were dispersed peacefully.”
“And the assault?”
“The alleged assault, don’t you mean?”
It was Lindsay’s turn for the grim smile. “Alleged assault,” she said.
“A woman is in custody in connection with an alleged assault earlier this evening at Brownlow Common. We expect to charge her shortly. She will appear before Fordham magistrates tomorrow morning. That’s it.” He turned away from her abruptly as his men began carrying the peace women down the steps. As soon as one woman was carried into the street and the police returned for the next, the first would outflank them and get back on to the steps. Lindsay knew the process of old. It would go on until police reinforcements arrived and outnumbered the protesters. It was a ritual dance that both sides had perfected.
When she saw a face she recognized being dumped on the pavement, Lindsay quickly went over and grabbed the woman’s arm before she could return to the steps. “Jackie,” Lindsay said urgently. “It’s me, Lindsay, I’m doing a story about the protest, can you give me a quick quote.”
The young black woman grinned. She said, “Sure. You can put in your paper that innocent women are being victimized by the police because we want a nuclear-free world to bring up our children in. Peace women don’t go around beating up men. One of our friends has been framed, so we’re making a peaceful protest. Okay? Now I’ve got to get back. See you, Lindsay.”
There was no time for Lindsay to stay and watch what happened. She ran back to the phone box, passing a police van loaded with uniformed officers on the corner of the marketplace. Gavin was standing by the phone box, looking worried.
Lindsay dived into the box and dialed the office copytakers’ number. She got through immediately and started dictating her story. When she had finished, she turned to Gavin and said, “I’ll put you on to give your quotes in a sec, okay? Listen, what’s the name of this woman who’s accused of the assault? The lawyer will kill it, but I’d better put it in for reference for tomorrow.
“She comes from Yorkshire, I think,” he said. “Her name’s Deborah Patterson.”
Lindsay’s jaw dropped. “Did you say . . . Deborah Patterson?”
He nodded. Lindsay was filled with a strange sense of unreality. Deborah Patterson. It was the last name she expected to hear. Once upon a time it had been the name she scribbled idly on her notepad while she waited for strangers to answer their telephones, conjuring up the mental image of the woman she spent her nights with. But that had been a long time ago. Now her ghost had come back to haunt her. That strong, funny woman who had once made her feel secure against the world was here in Fordham.
2
Lindsay stroked the four-year-old’s hair mechanically as she rocked her back and forth in her arms. “It’s okay, Cara,” she murmured at frequent intervals. The sobs soon subsided, and eventually the child’s regular breathing provided evidence that she had fallen asleep, worn out by the storm of emotions she’d suffered. “She’s dropped off at last,” Lindsay observed to Dr. Jane Thomas, who had taken charge of Cara after her mother’s dramatic arrest.
“I’ll put her in her bunk,” Jane replied. “Pass her over.” Lindsay awkwardly transferred the sleeping child to Jane, who carried her up the short ladder to the berth above the cab of the camper van that was Deborah’s home at the peace carnp. She settled the child and tucked her in then returned to sit opposite Lindsay at the table. “What are your plans?” she asked.
“I thought I’d stay the night here. My shift finishes at midnight, and the boss seems quite happy for me to stop here tonight. Since it looks as if Debs won’t be using her bed, I thought I’d take advantage of it and keep an eye on Cara at the same time if that sounds all right to you. I’ll have to go and phone Cordelia soon, though, or she’ll wonder where I’ve got to. Can you stay with Cara while I do that?”
“No sweat,” said Jane. “I was going to kip down here if you’d had to go back to London, but stay if you like. Cara’s known you all her life, after all. She knows she can trust you.”
Before Lindsay could reply, there was a quiet knock at the van’s rear door. Jane opened it to reveal a redheaded woman in her early thirties wearing the standard Sloane Ranger outfit of green wellies, needlecord jeans, designer sweater, and the inevitable Barbour jacket.
“Judith!” Jane exclaimed, “Am I glad to see you! Now we can find out exactly what’s going on. Lindsay, this is Judith Rowe, Deborah’s solicitor. She does all our legal work. Judith, this is Lindsay Gordon, who’s a reporter with the Daily Clarion, but more importantly, she’s an old friend of Deborah’s.”
Judith sat down beside Lindsay. “So it was you who left the note for Deborah at the police station?” she asked briskly.
“That’s right. As soon as I found out she’d been arrested, I thought I’d better let her know I was around in case she needed any help,” Lindsay said.
“I’m glad you did,” said Judith. “She was in a bit of a state about Cara until she got your message. She seemed calmer afterwards. Now, tomorrow, she’s appearing before the local magistrates. She’s been charged with breach of the peace and assault resulting in actual bodily harm on Rupert Crabtree. She’s going to put her hand up to the breach charge, but she wants to opt for jury trial on the ABH charge. She asked me to tell you what happened before you make any decisions about what I have to ask you. Okay?”
Lindsay nodded. Judith went on. “Crabtree was walking his dog up the road, near the phone box at Brownlow Cottages. Deborah had been making a call and when she left the box, Crabtree stood in her path and was really rather insulting, both to her and about the peace women in general. She tried to get past him, but his dog started growling and snapping at her and a scuffle developed. Crabtree tripped over the dog’s lead and crashed face first into the back of the phone box, breaking his nose. He claims to the police that Deborah grabbed his hair and smashed his face into the box. No witnesses. In her favor is the fact that she phoned an ambulance and stayed near by till it arrived.
“It’s been normal practice for the women to refuse to pay fines and opt for going to prison for non-payment. But Deborah feels she can’t take that option since it would be unfair to Cara. She’ll probably be fined about twenty-five pounds on the breach and won’t be given time to pay since she’ll also be looking for bail on the assault charge and Fordham mags can be absolute pigs when it comes to dealing with women from the camp. She asked me to ask you if you’d lend her the money to pay the fine. That’s point one.”
Judith was about to continue, but Lindsay interrupted. “Of course I will. She should know that, for God’s sake. Now, what’s point two?”
Judith grinned. “Point two is t
hat we believe bail will be set at a fairly high level. What I need is someone who will stand surety for Deborah.”
Lindsay nodded. “That’s no problem. What do I have to do?”
“You’ll have to lodge the money with the court. A check will do. Can you be there tomorrow?”
“Provided I can get away by half past two. I’m working tomorrow night, you see. I start at four.” She arranged to meet Judith at the magistrates’ court in the morning, and the solicitor got up to leave. The night briefly intruded as she left, reminding them all of the freezing February gale endured by the women outside.
“She’s been terrific to us,” said Jane, as they watched Judith drive away. “She just turned up one day not long after the first court appearance for obstruction. She offered her services any time we needed legal help. She’s never taken a penny from us, except what she gets in legal aid. Her family farms on the other side of town and her mother comes over about once a month with fresh vegetables for us. It’s really heartening when you get support from people like that, people you’d always vaguely regarded as class enemies, you know?”
Lindsay nodded. “That sort of thing always makes me feel ashamed for writing people off as stereotypes. Anyway, I’d better go and phone Cordelia before she starts to worry about me. Will you hold the fort for ten minutes?”
Lindsay jumped into the car and drove to the phone box where the incident between Deborah and Crabtree had taken place though it was too dark to detect any signs of the scuffle. A gust of wind blew a splatter of rain against the panes of the phone box as she dialed the London number and a sleepy voice answered, “Cordelia Brown speaking.”
“Cordelia? It’s me. I’m down at Brownlow Common on a job that’s got a bit complicated. I’m going to stay over. Okay?”
“What a drag. Why is it always you that gets stuck on the out-of-towners?”
“Strictly speaking, it’s not work that’s the problem.” Lindsay spoke in a rush. “Listen, there’s been a bit of bother between one of the peace women and a local man. There’s been an arrest. In fact, the woman who’s been arrested is Deborah Patterson.”
Cordelia’s voice registered her surprise. “Deborah from Yorkshire? That peace camp really is a small world, isn’t it? Whatever happened?”
“She’s been set up, as far as I can make out.”
“Not very pleasant for her, I should imagine.”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head. She’s currently locked up in a police cell, so I thought I’d keep an eye on little Cara till Debs is released tomorrow.”
“No problem,” Cordelia replied. “I can get some more work done tonight if you’re not coming back. It’s been going really well tonight, and I’m reluctant to stop till my eyes actually close.”
Lindsay gave a wry smile. “I’m glad it’s going well. I’ll try to come home tomorrow afternoon before I go to work.”
“Okay. I’ll try to get home in time.”
“Oh. Where are you off to? Only, I thought you were going to be home all week.”
“My mother rang this evening. She’s coming up tomorrow to do the shops and I promised I’d join her. But I’ll try to be back for four.”
“Look, don’t rush your mother on my account. I’ll see you tomorrow in bed. I should be home by one. Love you, babe.”
A chill wind met her as she stepped out of the phone box and walked quickly back to the car. She pictured her lover sitting at her word processor, honing and refining her prose, relieved at the lack of distraction. Then she thought of Deborah, fretting in some uncomfortable, smelly cell. It wasn’t an outcome Lindsay had anticipated all those years before when, a trainee journalist on a local paper in Cornwall, she had encountered Deborah at a party. For Lindsay, it had been lust at first sight, and as the evening progressed and drink had been taken, she had contrived to make such a nuisance of herself that Deborah finally relented for the sake of peace and agreed to meet Lindsay the following evening for a drink.
That night had been the first of many. Their often stormy relationship had lasted for nearly six months before Lindsay was transferred to another paper in the group. Neither of them could sustain the financial or emotional strain of separation, and soon mutual infidelities transformed their relationship to platonic friendship. Not long after, Lindsay left the West Country for Fleet Street, and Deborah announced her intention of having a child. Deborah bought a ruined farmhouse in North Yorkshire that she was virtually rebuilding single-handed. Even after Lindsay moved back to Scotland, she still made regular visits to Deborah and was surprised to find how much she enjoyed spending time with Deborah’s small daughter. She felt comfortable there, even when they were joined for the occasional evening by Cara’s father Robin, a gay man who lived near by. But Lindsay and Deborah never felt the time was right to revive their sexual relationship.
After she had fallen for Cordelia, Lindsay’s visits had tailed off, though she had once taken Cordelia to stay the night. It had not been a success. Deborah had been rebuilding the roof at the time, there was no electricity, and the water had to be pumped by hand from the well in the yard. Cordelia had not been impressed with either the accommodation or the insouciance of its owner. But Lindsay had sensed a new maturity in Deborah that she found appealing.
Deborah had clearly sensed Cordelia’s discomfort, but she had not commented on it. She had a willingness to accept people for what they were, and conduct her relationships with them on that basis. She never imposed her own expectations on them, and regarded her reactions to people and events as entirely her responsibility. It would be nice, thought Lindsay, not to feel that she was failing to come up to scratch. Time spent with Deborah always made her feel good about herself.
Back at the van, she brought in a bottle of Scotch from the car and poured a nightcap for herself and Jane.
“Are you all right, Lindsay?” Jane asked.
Lindsay’s reply was drowned out by a roar outside louder, even, than the stormy weather. It was a violent sound, rising and falling angrily. Lindsay leapt to her feet and pulled back the curtain over the van’s windscreen. Fear rose in her throat. The black night was scythed open by a dozen brilliant headlamps whose beams raked the benders like prison-camp searchlights. The motor bikes revved and roared in convoluted patterns round the encampment, sometimes demolishing benders as they went. As Lindsay’s eyes adjusted to the night, she could make out pillion riders on several of the bikes, some wielding stout sticks, others swinging heavy chains at everything in their path. It was clearly not the first time the women had been raided in this way, for everyone had the sense to stay down inside the scant shelter the benders provided.
Lindsay and Jane stood speechless, petrified by the spectacle. The van’s glow seemed to exert a magnetic effect on three of the bikers and their cyclops lamps swung round and lit it up like a follow-spot on a stage.
“Oh shit,” breathed Lindsay as the bikes careered toward the van. She leaned forward desperately and groped round the unfamiliar dashboard. What felt like agonizing minutes later she found the right switch and flicked the lights on to full beam. The bikes wavered in their course and two of them peeled off to either side. The third skidded helplessly in the mud and slithered into a sideways slew on the greasy ground. The rider struggled to his feet, mouthing obscenities, and dragged himself round to his top-box. Out of it he pulled a large plastic bag which he hurled at the van. The women instinctively dived for the floor as it slammed into the windscreen with a squelching thud. Lindsay raised her head and nearly threw up. The world had turned red.
All over the windscreen was a skin of congealing blood with lumps of unidentifiable material slowly slithering down on to the bonnet. Jane’s head appeared beside her. “Oh God, not the pigs’ blood routine again,” she moaned. “I thought they’d got bored with that one.”
As she spoke, the bikes revved up again, then their roar gradually diminished into an irritated buzz as they left the camp and reached the road.
“We must cal
l the police!” Lindsay exclaimed.
“It’s a waste of time calling the police, Lindsay. They just don’t want to know. The first time they threw blood over our benders, we managed to get the police to come out. But they said we’d done it ourselves, that we were sensation seekers. They said there was no evidence of our allegations. Tire tracks in the mud don’t count, you see. Nor do the statements of forty women. It doesn’t really matter what crimes are perpetrated against us, because we’re subhuman, you see.”
“That’s monstrous,” Lindsay protested.
“But inevitable,” Jane retorted. “What’s going on here is so radical that they can’t afford to treat it seriously on any level. Start accepting that we’ve got any rights and you end up by giving validity to the nightmares that have brought us here. Do that and you’re halfway to accepting that our views on disarmament are a logical position. Much easier to treat us with total contempt.”
“That’s intolerable,” said Lindsay.
“I’d better go and check that no one’s hurt,” Jane said. “One of the women got quite badly burned the first time they fire-bombed the tents.”
“Give me a second to check that Cara’s okay and I’ll come with you,” Lindsay said, getting up and climbing the ladder that led to Cara’s bunk. Surprisingly, the child was still fast asleep.
“I guess she’s used to it by now,” Jane said, leading the way outside.
It was a sorry scene that greeted them. The headlights of several of the women’s vehicles illuminated half a dozen benders now reduced to tangled heaps of wreckage, out of which women were still crawling. Jane headed for the first aid bender while Lindsay plowed through the rain and wind to offer what help she could to two women struggling to salvage the plastic sheeting that had formed their shelter. Together all three battled against the weather and roughly reerected the bender. But the women’s sleeping bags were soaked and they trudged off to try and find some dry blankets to get them through the night.