10
I jumped off the trailer and ran towards them. Tony was certainly making me earn my money today. I barged though the gathering crowd.
‘Tony, calm down, mate. It’s all right.’
His head didn’t move. His eyes, red and swollen, were still fixed on Bastard.
‘It’s not all right.’ He jerked a finger over at the buildings. ‘Do you know what’s gone on over there? Do you?’
I was about to answer when I realized it wasn’t me he was talking to. ‘They will have died horrendously. That gas is the same stuff they use on death row. Did you know that?’
Bastard couldn’t be bothered to answer, but Tony wasn’t going to give him the chance. ‘Do you know why they strap men down before they press the button?’
There wasn’t a flicker in Bastard’s eyes. But everybody else’s looked at Tony for the answer.
‘Because it makes the muscles contract so violently they break every bone in the victim’s body. And that’s what’s happening to the women and children in there!’
Bastard stared blankly into Tony’s eyes. ‘Hey, we’re all just here to get the job done. What’s your f*cking problem?’
Tony took a step closer. ‘I’ll tell you what my problem is. The space is too confined. You’re killing them!’
Bastard no longer bothered to put the brakes on the smile that was spreading across his face. He just turned to me, and when he spoke it was so calm it was scary. ‘Tell your fag friend that we are dealing with some very bad people here. They are religious fanatics who’ve stockpiled—’
‘Fanatics? The little girl we heard couldn’t have been more than five years old!’ Flecks of spittle flew from Tony’s mouth. ‘What are you doing? What is going on? This is madness! This is murder!’
Bastard stared down at him as he wiped his face. ‘Murder? Well, chew on this, fag. It’s your goddam gas, so I guess that makes you an accessory.’
Tony stepped back, stunned.
Bastard revelled in the sight. ‘Kinda catches in the back of your throat, don’t it?’ He looked up to share the moment with the crowd. ‘Hey, just like that gas of yours.’
That did it for Tony. He pulled his hand back and bunched it, but Bastard was too quick for him. His own fist connected with Tony’s chest. As he pulled back for another punch, I moved behind him, grabbed his arm and pulled, adding momentum to the swing. He did a 180 on the spot.
Bastard was quick to square up to me as I stood my ground instead of following through with some punches to put him down. It was the right thing to do; he hadn’t attacked me, after all. He had lost face, and needed to reassert; that was OK, I understood that, I couldn’t let that happen. He was a big man, and if one of those fists made contact I was going to need one of those non-existent ambulances. But it was too late for me to worry about that now.
Bastard started towards me, just as a shout went up from one of the vehicles, half in shock, half in celebration. ‘Fire! Fire!’
Bastard turned his head. I grabbed Tony. ‘Get the kit together, we’re f*cking off!’
Four or five columns of smoke started to rise from the compound as we ran. Even if there had been a fire crew in place, the combination of the heat of the day, the wind and the gas – that would now have dried to a fine powder – made the chances of putting it out next to zero.
As if on cue, a policeman jumped down from his wagon, ran a few metres towards the compound, then turned back to face the crowd. He unfurled an ATF flag for all to see. ‘It’s a potbellied stove!’ he half shouted, half laughed. ‘Open it up, let the f*ckers burn!’
He waved the flag and scores of men hooted and hollered. In the background, I heard a barrel organ. The fairground was sparking up.