Ricky MacFadyen was walking down Red Lion Street. He was carrying a parcel of fish and chips from Sheddy Turner’s and eagerly anticipating consuming them.
As he turned the sharp dog-leg bend, he heard a woman scream. Someone else was shouting. Ricky saw that a small crowd had gathered near two men rolling around in the middle of the road. Each was punching the other vigorously, but one of them, clearly younger and stronger than the other, was giving his opponent a pasting. Blood was pouring from the latter’s nose and the flesh surrounding both his eyes was already swelling.
Ricky dumped his parcel on a bollard, ran forwards and dived into the fray.
‘Cut it out!’ he said, grabbing the man who seemed to be getting the best of it and trying to haul him off.
The man stood up to face him foursquare. His clothes were casual but expensive. He was about six foot two and powerfully built. He was olive-skinned, with very black hair.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’
The voice was rough. Ricky thought he detected a twang of Irish.
‘I’m a police officer.’
Ricky groped in his breast pocket for ID.
‘Oh, a copper, are you? And I’m the fucking Dalai Lama. Where’s your helmet?’
The man landed two brisk punches on Ricky’s nose and forehead before making a run for it. Ricky didn’t chase after him: his assailant had caught him off guard and for a few seconds he couldn’t take in what had happened. He looked at the man lying on the ground. He might be badly injured: the first priority was to help him. Ricky’s own eyes were smarting with the pain. Gingerly, he put his hand up to his face. As far as he could tell, his nose wasn’t bleeding.
The man on the ground rolled over and, supporting himself with his arms, slowly clambered to his knees. His nose was still streaming with blood. Ricky grabbed hold of his elbow.
‘Can you stand, sir? I’ll call an ambulance.’
Unsteadily, the man hoisted himself to his feet and, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped some of the blood from his face.
‘No ambulance!’ he said. ‘No fuss.’
A woman came out of the craft shop opposite carrying a folding chair. She set it up on the edge of the pavement. The injured man sat down heavily.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘I’ll fetch you a glass of water.’
The injured man gestured impatiently with his hand, as if to swat her away. For a moment he’d forgotten about Ricky, who took the opportunity to call for a squad car.
‘Affray in Red Lion Street,’ he said. ‘This is DC MacFadyen. Backup needed, and an ambulance.’
Catching the last two sentences, the injured man glared at Ricky and immediately forced himself to his feet. He put his hand to his head and fell back on the chair again, closing his eyes.
‘Steady, sir. Just hold on there for a little while.’ Ricky raised his voice, making an effort to detain the bystanders, who were already beginning to melt away. ‘I’m going to need a couple of witnesses. Did anyone see the whole incident?’
The six or seven people remaining, most of them men, muttered such excuses as that they’d just come to look when they’d heard ‘something going off’ as they sidled past him. Ricky was left with only a girl of about twelve and the female shopkeeper.
‘I saw most of it,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Poor Mr Fovargue!’
‘You know him?’
‘Yes, it’s Jack Fovargue. You know – him as teaches the kids about soil and growing things. Such a nice man.’
Ricky knew nothing about this, but he didn’t say so. The name ‘Fovargue’ sounded vaguely familiar. It was unusual enough to stick in the memory even if he’d only come across it in passing.
‘Who started the fight?’
‘Oh, not Mr Fovargue. He’s a gentleman through and through! It was the other one as started it.’
‘Do you know him, too?’
‘No, I’ve never seen him before. A didicoi, I expect. They’ve been passing through in dribs and drabs lately, after that big fair they have up north.’
‘You mean the Appleby Fair?’
‘I suppose that’s it, yes. Did you recognise him, Ellie?’
Ricky turned to the girl, who was standing quietly by his elbow, large solemn eyes fixed on Fovargue’s swollen face.
‘I think I’ve seen him before. I think he once came to Junior Soil Society.’
‘To what?’ said Ricky.
‘Junior Soil Society,’ said the woman, as reverently as if she’d just mentioned an Ivy League university. ‘I told you: Mr Fovargue teaches the kids about looking after the land. He gets them interested in their heritage.’ She switched to a lower key. ‘This is Ellie. She’s my daughter.’
Ricky nodded at Ellie.
‘What’s your name?’ he said to the woman.
‘Julia. Julia Withers.’ She pointed at the name over the shop.
‘Do I understand that you’re prepared to make a statement, Mrs Withers?’
‘Yes, of course I will.’
‘No. No statements, no fuss,’ said Jack Fovargue, suddenly opening his eyes as much as he could and erupting into life again.
A police car drew up alongside them. PC Giash Chakrabati jumped out. He was joined at the kerbside by PC Verity Tandy, his partner.
‘DC MacFadyen! Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Ricky. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You’ve got a nasty cut above your right eye, sir. You may need a couple of stitches.’
‘Seriously?’ said Ricky, touching his eyebrow gingerly. ‘I wasn’t aware of it. It’s this man who’s really been hurt. I asked for an ambulance. Do you know if it’s coming?’
‘Your request was relayed. It shouldn’t be long. Do you want me to take a statement while we’re waiting? Do you feel up to talking to us, sir?’
Jack Fovargue settled himself more squarely in the chair and straightened his back. It was a struggle, but he managed it.
‘Look,’ he said, forcing a smile and speaking in a quiet and tautly even voice, ‘I’m extremely grateful to you all, but I don’t want any fuss. A hot bath and I’ll be fine.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I...’
The ambulance arrived, manoeuvring itself into position alongside the police car. The small group was joined by two male paramedics.
‘Do you want us to move the car?’ said Verity.
‘That depends on the casualty. If he can get into a wheelchair, you’re okay.’
‘If you insist on taking me in the ambulance, I’m quite capable of walking to it,’ said Jack Fovargue, attempting another smile. His voice trembled slightly, betraying irritation – or was it fear? ‘But quite frankly,’ he continued, ‘as I’ve already said, I think you’re making too much of this. I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine.’
‘You need to get yourself checked out, sir.’
‘All right, I’ll come with you.’ He stood up. One of the paramedics offered his arm and Fovargue took it, clinging to it quite fiercely. He looked over his shoulder at Ricky and Mrs Withers. ‘But no statements, please. It all looked much worse than it was. And I have absolutely no intention of pressing charges.’