Chapter 20

 

“Get yourselves cleaned up and we’ll watch the matinee show back in my room at 1630 hours,” said Lenny when they arrived back at the Chester Hotel. “And bring your own beer and popcorn because you’re not having any of mine.”

That gave Milton about 15 minutes to himself. Wilko had done an excellent job on the cut. It looked like six stitches in the mirror’s reflection but it could have been more.

He quickly showered and washed away all the dried blood. He took a cold can of pop from the minibar and placed it against his face, which was still burning with the pain.

It was a soothing relief, but before he had a chance to do anything else his phone rang. It was Lenny asking what was taking him so long.

“On my way, Lenny,” said Milton as he grabbed a couple of beers from the minibar, slipped the hotel bathrobe over his boxer shorts and t-shirt and headed out.

The four were glued to the television in Lenny’s room like kids watching cartoons. Lenny and one of the men were sitting in the two chairs with the other two on the floor. They couldn’t even prise their eyes away from the television to acknowledge Milton as he walked in.

Milton sat on the edge of the bed and watched the television in horror. It was like a morbid throwback to the time he was sitting alone in his hotel room in Zurich watching pictures of all the trouble that had gone on that afternoon.

It was classic déjà vu: same channel - CNN; same woman reporter; same television pictures that were being beamed across the world - only this time they looked worse.

The female American accent could hardly get the words out fast enough:

“Police have made dozens of arrests, mainly England fans, who appear to have launched an organised attack on this street. At two o’clock this afternoon, many men, women and children were making the most of a mild autumn afternoon. It’s a street also popular with tourists with its coffee shops and traditional Parisian architecture.

“Then terror struck as between 500 and 1,000 English supporters - and I use the term loosely - wreaked havoc and turned this beautiful area into a battlefield.”

The camera moved its focus from the woman reporter to the scenes over her shoulder. One shopkeeper was sweeping up broken glass that probably used to fill the gaping hole that was now exposing his shop to the outside world.

There were waiters turning tables back upright and medical workers and police attending to the many injured that were still scattered across the street.

“Authorities say that 57 people have been taken to hospital, several of whom are reported to have suffered stab wounds and many have fractures. Witnesses report scenes of utter carnage and I am joined now by Richard Lecroix, who was drinking at one of the coffee shops in the area.

“What happened here Richard?”

The microphone was thrust in front of a pale-faced middle-aged man who had scrapes on his forehead. His blue French rugby shirt was torn around the collar and he looked as if he had been in the thick of it.

The man spoke in an Anglo-French accent.

“It was terrible. Very frightening,” he said, shaking his head. “I was drinking with friends and then suddenly, boom.”

His hands moved in a way suggesting a bomb had gone off.

“All these shouting men came from everywhere and started kicking and punching anything in their way. I saw one lady get punched. As I helped her from the floor, I was kicked in the head and just lay on the floor, praying they would leave me alone. I have never been so scared in my life.”

The Frenchman started weeping. He was heavily traumatised.

“What’s he crying for? He’s back on his feet ain’t he?” Lenny joked.

The footage from the afternoon’s events was then repeated.

A male anchorman in the studio with a deep American accent narrated.

“Here we see it again, the scenes of absolute chaos as hundreds, possibly up to 2,000, football followers clashed in one of the most popular areas of Paris. This of course is a huge blow to England’s hopes of hosting the World Cup finals in 2006. That decision, as we said earlier, will be made in a couple of months by FIFA and pictures like this will not have done them any favours.”

Milton watched in horror as the pictures showed hand-to-hand combat on the scale he had not witnessed at any football match before. This action took place long after the Hit Squads had evacuated. Not even the television cameras would have been in the area that got hit awaiting potential trouble.

“Shame we left so early,” said Lenny. “All this was going on well after we were there. At least TV caught the tail end of it.”

The narrator said it was some 30 more minutes before calm was restored and police were rounding up scores of England fans they suspected of being involved.

“They haven’t got a clue,” said one of the men sitting on the floor. “We’re here, hello.” He waved at the television.

“Well,” declared Lenny. “Here’s to another highly successful job done.”

Lenny stood up and raised his beer and the others rose to their feet and copied. Milton reluctantly joined them.

He stayed with them for about an hour but the pain from the side of his face was becoming unbearable. He was not in the mood for socialising so he made his excuses and retired to his room.

It had been the failure of all failures for him.

If his instructions had been followed, all the carnage he had watched on the television would have been avoided. Arrests would have been made and Expatriatedotcom would have been smashed. He could have gone home.

Instead, the situation was worse now than ever and his pride was hurting more than the cut on his face. It had been a shambles and this time he was convinced that he would be the scapegoat; both barrels of the gun wedged in his mouth with the trigger cocked.

He spent the evening lying on his bed trying to think of excuses but the pictures on the television still shocked him despite his being in the thick of it and seeing it first hand.

What must his superiors be thinking?

But something wasn’t right in his own mind.

He had at one point during the afternoon enjoyed the rush. Charging through the streets and the original hit were one of the most adrenalin-fuelled moments he had ever experienced.

He then became scared when the Scouser spotted him but he almost enjoyed punching him to the ground and kicking him in the middle of the mass brawl.

He could not understand himself at all anymore. Had he gone too far? Whose side had he just been on?

Should he just leave the hotel and return back to the UK before it got out of hand? His gut feeling told him to go, but his cover was still intact and the cut under his eye would ensure a hero’s welcome back in Dubai.

He was too tired to make decisions as he lay on the bed. Despite all the physical training he had gone through, he was exhausted and decided to leave any major decision making until the morning.

For now he had a football match to watch on the television.

 

* * *

 

Twenty-four hours later Milton was back in the Pheasant Hotel in Dubai. The staff, who had come to like their permanent visitor, were concerned to see him with a cut under his eye. Gopal had brought painkillers to his room, which did the trick, and by the time Milton arrived at Expatriatedotcom on the Thursday morning he was feeling a lot better.

As he walked into the warehouse, he was greeted by cheers from the morning shift which had watched the action on television. He was getting pats on the back and his hand shaken by just about everyone as he walked to the staff room. He felt a weird sense of pride and adulation.

“John Milton, you are my idol,” said Stardust, who was already in the staff room. “Straight in there with the first wave and Lenny said you did one hell of a job. Let me shake your hand.”

Milton smiled but flinched; it still aggravated the cut.

“Wilko patched you up pretty good,” Stardust said as he inspected the damage. “You’re lucky he came to your Hit Squad. Some of the other medical guys would have used knitting needles and wool to fix that cut.”

He laughed and ruffled Milton’s hair.

On the way home from Paris via Barcelona, Milton had decided he would continue to keep his cover. He couldn’t face the dishonour of returning to London in failure anyway. Instead he had returned to the sort of hero’s welcome that he had never experienced in all his time in the force.

“How did it look from the chopper?” asked Milton.

“Chaotic and bloody marvellous!” replied Stardust. I was gagging to put the chopper down somewhere to join in but couldn’t. It was hard up there. Police were coming in from every avenue and up Prince’s Street was about the only way out. We sent the other Hit Squads out that way too.”

“Is everyone okay?” enquired Milton, who was genuinely concerned.

“Every single one. You were about the worst injured, John. You need to sharpen up, my friend!”

Now he could see why he had become so frustrated since he started with the anti-hooliganism squad.

They were like ghosts, in and out before the Old Bill arrived. All the police would be left with were the men who had followed like sheep; untrained, unfit, drunk, and easy to arrest.

No wonder they had got nowhere over the previous 12 months. The latest figures from Paris showed that 400 England fans had been arrested. Again those 400 were like the thousands they had arrested already across Europe at the other matches. And for every 100 arrested and later banned from travelling, there were always going to be another 100 to pick up the baton for the next match. In some strange way, as with terrorism and suicide bombers, the television images of football violence made it appealing to a whole new audience at home itching to get involved.

The facts were simple and clearer to Milton than ever before. Stop Jacks and you stop the mass trouble. For sure there would be fights, but nowhere near the scale of the past few matches.

Almost 200 people had been treated in hospital; thankfully there had been no deaths. For that, Milton was hugely relieved.

As he finished his tea, ready to start his shift, the warehouse erupted in cheers that could only mean one thing: Jacks had entered.

Through the glass door he could see the lads mobbing Jacks and a couple hoisted him onto their shoulders. They were chanting “Carson, Carson” and he was like a World Cup winner waving down to them with a huge grin on his face.

This had been the most successful operation so far for the group and Jacks was a happy man.

“Lads, to celebrate the past week’s success, there will be another party over at ours this Saturday and we’re closed Sunday so we can party all night!”

This news was greeted by celebratory cheers as Jacks was gently dropped to the ground and Milton could only watch in awe. He had probably become Jacks’s greatest admirer, which made him even more determined than ever to bring him to his knees.