CHAPTER 32. GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG.
Lukasz ducked through the gaping hole followed by Patryk. Neither man thought it worthwhile trying to jam the rest of the sheet iron back into the opening. It wouldn't keep out the Smashers for more than a few seconds.
Outside, the wind dropped and in that moment of stillness they heard the skinheads shouting, cursing and yelling as they searched for the Poles. Both men knew that even the dimmest most drunken skinhead would soon stumble across this doorway. Turning away from the door, the huge room was in total darkness. Fumbling out his mobile Lukasz switched on its flashlight function.
Patryk joined him and by the light of the two beams they saw that this room seemed more solid, less damaged by decades of neglect. At some point in its history, it must have been a storage depot for a builder's merchant. Everything had now been removed except for rows of huge concrete tubes. Most lay on their sides but some stood on end against one wall like Doric columns.
As he'd told Naismith all those months ago Patryk had never worked in construction but he reckoned these must have been intended for a sewer system – possibly for a housing estate. They must have been too heavy and not worth the effort of shifting when the merchant moved out so they lay abandoned and forlorn in the Maltings.
A crash from behind made the two men jump. "They'll be in any time now," called Lukasz. Patryk looked around desperately. "Nothing for it – we'll have to hide."
The two men scrambled up the pyramid of drainage pipes and then crawled into one near the top. Lukasz backed to the far end giving Patryk room to hide as well. The pipe was damp and chill inside with a thin skein of dirty water at the bottom covering rubble and broken bricks. Only just in time. Over the roar of the wind they heard the door below kicked open and then booted feet trampling on the concrete floor.
"They here?" they heard one of the Smashers call.
"Dunno. Us four'll search this building. The rest of you, check the next," Mason's Fenland voice came up to them.
"Yes, guv," one of the skins said. To Lucasz, it sounded like his old friend Beetroot's voice. He shuddered at the thought of meeting either Beetroot or Turnip again.
Although they heard some of the men leave, to their horror they heard a couple of Smashers climbing the mound of drainage pipes. It could only be a matter of time before one of them spotted them cowering within the tube. Lukasz tugged on Patryk's ankle. "We've got to get out," he whispered.
"Wait," Patryk replied.
They both heard at least a couple of the Smashers coming closer. One swore as he lost his grip and slipped back.
"Wait. Go when I give the word," Patryk said.
Knowing that his friend could see what was happening, Lukasz had to trust the other's judgement. All the same, Lukasz felt his skin crawling with fear. Here he was, cowering in an abandoned sewer pipe waiting for a bunch of violent neo-Nazis to kick the living daylights out of him. With their blood up and their steel toe-capped boots, he wondered if he would make it through the next quarter hour.
It was a long way from Warsaw and Lukasz wondered if he would ever see Sigismund's Column or the Old Town Market Place again. The prospects didn't look good. He hoped he would die like a man and not screaming and begging for mercy. It wasn't much to ask from life – or death.
Then over Patryk's shoulder, Lukasz saw a face in the pipe's opening. It was too dark to see who it was. But then the skinhead spoke a line of gibberish. "All the nations will ask: 'Why has the Lord done this to this land? Why this fierce, burning anger?'"
As he did so, the skinhead flipped his lighter to his aerosol's nozzle and sent a jet of flame towards Patryk. The interior of the pipe lit up orange and even at the far end, Lukasz felt the blast of heat. There was a stink of chemical deodorant.
From below, Lukasz heard Mason's voice. "That's right. Burn 'em out Malkie. Burn the..." That was as far as Mason got. Patryk lifted a half brick and chucked it at Malkie's head. His throw was limited by the confined space but it was good and at that range, he couldn't miss. The brickbat clunked on Malkie's forehead and the tall skinhead squawked, waved his arms in the air and toppled back.
From his position at the base of the pyramid where he was checking the lower pipes, Mason looked up when he heard Malkie shout something from the bible. That was one strange mother, Mason thought. Strange but scary. Then he saw fire shoot into one of the pipes near the top. "That's right. Burn 'em out Malkie. Burn the...," Mason shouted encouragingly.
Then it all went horribly wrong. Holding a lighter and aerosol in his hands, Malkie wasn't supporting himself. Only his feet were resting on the lip of the pipe below the Poles. Mason heard a squawk and then Malkie toppled back like a felled Montana redwood. A brick clattered down the stack.
Mason watched, mouth wide open as Malkie fell through the air. He thought about moving but too late. Malkie's body crashed into him, knocking Mason to the ground, winding him. Mason's thick skull bounced off the concrete floor and he saw stars. Stunned, he was trapped by Malkie's dead weight. Then he saw the two hunted Poles wriggle out of their pipe and climb down. Mason pushed himself up to one elbow. "Hey! Here," he called out to the two remaining Smashers searching the far end of this building.
Mason was too late. Before the others could reach him, the two Poles were on top of him.
Patryk looked down at the sprawled chief Smasher. He remembered all the things that had gone wrong since that rigged election. All the indignities leading up to Lukasz's beating and Kassia leaving him. Patryk knew Lukasz even now wouldn't do this – the man was too gentle for that. But he wasn't.
Patryk drew back his foot and, only wishing he was wearing steelies like the Smashers, he kicked Mason right in the pods. The man's scream descended down the scales into a desperate, gasping whine as his hands flew between his legs and his body took on a strange, twisted comma shape. Even in the near darkness, Patryk saw Mason's face go pale as the blood drained away. That felt so good. No way would that poor excuse for a man be fathering any babies in the near future.
Grabbing Lukasz's shoulder, Patryk pushed the horrified young man towards the door just as the two other Smashers rounded the corner of the stack of pipes. They stood confused, unsure whether to help the moaning Mason and Malkie or take after their quarry.
That was all the time Patryk needed. He gave Lukasz another shove towards the door and then they were both outside in the rain again. Leaning back, Patryk drew the heavy door closed and then in one distant lightning flash, he spotted a rusting iron bar lying on the ground. Patryk stooped and dropped the bar through the padlock's hasp, locking those Smashers in the building.
Noticing the wild look in his friend's eye, Lukasz grasped Patryk's arm. "You shouldn't have kicked him like that. It must have hurt."
Patryk grinned and in that look, Lukasz saw countless generations of heroic Poles who fought valiantly against Prussians, Austrians, Russians and Swedes until they fell beneath their conquerors' swords. But they died as heroes. Death before dishonour.
Patryk shook his head and the light of battle faded a little. "No. Didn't hurt me a bit. Hurt him though. Now, let's find somewhere before the rest of the skins show up."
Lukasz looked around. Between the Bass Maltings themselves and the chain-link fence were a few brick outhouses. Splashing through the puddles, keeping as low a profile as possible, the two men ran to the nearest hut. Adrenaline masked some of the pain from Lukasz's ankle. The hut was locked tight. Running for the exit wasn't an option as there was still a knot of skinheads sitting in several cars and 4x4s which blocked the road. However, Lukasz couldn't spot the huge black bulk of Peachornby's Phantom. It looked like the fat führer had sense enough to keep away from the kill.
Wind blown rain lashed against them as Lukasz pointed to a thick stand of buddleia bushes that edged a slope between the huts and fence. "Wouldn't it be better to hide down there?" he asked.
Patryk shook his head. "In this? We'll catch pneumonia. And they'd see us easy."
Lukasz was about to argue the point but then both heard yells and curses as more Smashers came round the corner from the next unit of the Bass Maltings.
"Shit. They've called their mates. C'mon, man," Patryk swore, dragging Lukasz out of sight to the next hut. Patryk pushed open the door. The wood had swelled with the damp and its base scraped over the concrete floor pushing leaves, litter and debris out of the way. From the dim light filtering through the grimy window, Lukasz reckoned this hut had once been an office of some kind. The room was L shaped with a small fireplace on the short wall.
At some point in the past, a tramp had found his way into this building and broken bottles and filthy rags nested in the corner. It stunk of old ashes, stale booze, body odour and urine. The two men crouched gasping in the darkest corner of the L out of sight of both the window and door. It wasn't great but there was nowhere else to run now.
Outside, they heard the skins kicking off. It sounded like they'd released Mason and his friends. They heard Mason's voice over the rainfall. He was going on about what he'd do to Patryk when he caught up with him. All the same, his voice didn't sound quite right.
"It was still worth it," Patryk whispered. "It wouldn't have changed anything – they'll still kill us if they catch us."
Lukasz nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.
The hut's door was kicked open. A fugly skinhead stood in the entrance, blocking what little light came in. He flashed a beam of light from his mobile around the room. The two Poles shrunk back against the wall. "Nah, not 'ere," the Smasher shouted back over his shoulder.
"Sure? You checked?" they heard Mason call back.
The Smasher took one, two paces into the small room darting beams of light around as he did so. "Nah. Deffo not 'ere." The man's voice died away as he retreated to the doorway. He cast one last beam back, the light splashing over the graffiti scarred plaster. It also caught the hem of Lukasz's jeans.
"Fu...," the Smasher said, taken by surprise. The man strode back into the hut. He was a big man; like Mason the veteran of many terrace battles and far-right demos. He had no fear.
Patryk jumped to his feet. He gripped a charred length of wood, the remnants of some vagrant's camp fire. He swung the cudgel at the skinhead's bonce. Warned by the rush of air, the Smasher leaned back and the wood narrowly missed and smashed into the wall. The shock vibrated up Patryk's arm and he dropped the wood.
Having leaned backwards, the Smasher jerked his head forward, his forehead knocking on Patryk's nose in a near perfect Glasgow Kiss – a head-butt. Patryk cried out with shock and pain and staggered back. He lost his footing on the litter strewn floor and fell back with a crash. Bottles clattered
This Smasher had double the brain cells than most of his crew. Before wading in, he shouted out, "'Ere they are. Them two Polack wazzocks."
Then, switching his flashlight to his left hand, the thug stepped forwards. In the backwash of light, Lukasz noticed the man's fleshy, pockmark scarred face around a scorpion tattoo. Patryk stood up again next to Lukasz. But before he did so, he picked up a sherry bottle and shattered it against the wall. Vicious shards glinted in the light from the Smasher's mobie.
In fairness, the Smasher didn't look scared. He made a beckoning gesture with his free hand. "Go 'ead, if yer 'ard enuff," he invited.
From outside, over the wind and rain, Patryk and Lukasz heard Doc Marten boots hurrying over the cobbles. Patryk stuck out his free hand and sought Lukasz's. They shook hands. "It was good knowing you. Guess we won't make Poland now," Patryk said in Polish.
Summoning up his courage, Lukasz said, "See you in Warsaw. Mate." He felt like crying. This was the end. The end of it all. There would be no quarter given by the Smashers. Then Lukasz stiffened his backbone. He was Polish after all – his great grandfather had died in the Warsaw uprising of 1944. And his great-great grandfather against the Reds in the Civil War. No way was he going to disgrace his ancestors or his nation. If he was going to die tonight, then he'd go down fighting.
"Oi. Speak English," snarled the Smasher. He lunged at Lukasz. Who kicked the thug hard on the shin.
"Ouch, that hurt!" the man cried. "Dirty rotten fighter." Beating up people who were intimidated by his size and didn't fight back was more his line.
But then reinforcements thronged the doorway and a couple more skinheads pushed their way into the hut. It was getting crowded now. Patryk lobbed an empty bottle at the reinforcements. Catching a glimpse, they ducked and the bottle bounced off somebody's shoulder. Stooping, Patryk snatched up another, smashed it against the brickwork and stood, like a stag at bay, with his back to the wall. Lukasz stepped back, joining his friend. He put up his fists like a boxer while Patryk jabbed out with his broken bottle.
Mason was one of the men who had entered the hut. His teeth shone in the darkness. "I'll teach you," he snarled, stepping forwards. He was going to enjoy stomping these two jokers into the concrete. He punched his fist into his palm. Apart from the sound of the wind and rain outside it was the only sound in the enclosed room. A small moment of calm before the storm of violence that would follow.
Except it wasn't. Another noise impinged on the men's focussed adrenaline fuelled concentrations. The rise and fall of sirens wailing and following on from that, the thrum of tyres racing over the wet cobbles. Then blue light bounced into the room through the open door.
The skinheads looked at each other. The Poles looked at each other. The two groups had very different expressions on their faces. As the veteran of too many terrace brawls and late night pub punch-ups Mason had quick reflexes. He knew when the going gets tough, the tough get going. Out the door and away on your toes like greased lightning. Mason turned and ran followed by the rest of his gang.
"Not so tough now, are you," Lukasz jeered as they ran. Patryk dropped his broken bottle and trod on it. No way did he want some over-zealous constable mistaking him for a Smasher and giving him a good wellying.
Supporting Lukasz, Patryk made his way out of the hut and stood outside. Gulping down fresh air, they watched the Smashers run. They may be fast but they were no match for the OSU's grey Mercedes Sprinter vans. Already several skins were lying face down on the cobbles with their hands clasped behind their necks.
One policeman kicked apart a skinhead's ankles. Even as they watched, two cops made bulky by their body armour and equipment dragged Mason out from behind the stand of buddleia bushes and threw him down to rejoin his mates. Face down, the Smashers looked a sorry sight, stripped of their swaggering, bullying power. Just a group of social misfits.
Behind the line of OSU vans an ambulance drew up. A couple of green-suited paramedics hurried over to the Maltings to treat Malkie and any other injured Smashers. One of the police sergeants saw Patryk and Lukasz by the hut and stepped towards them. "You two, get over here," he ordered. His voice brusque and terse.
The sliding door of the lead OSU van opened. A big man with a lot of silver braid on his dark blue uniform stepped out. Having come direct from a meeting with a senior civil servant from the Home Office, he was not in riot gear and on his epaulettes was a crown denoting his rank as Superintendent.
"What a sorry sight," he said, looking down at the row of skinheads. "Third eleven at best." Superintendent Donelan beckoned Patryk and Lukasz over. "Don't worry – these bat for our team," he said. He looked again at the row of skinheads. One of them was wriggling, trying to find a drier spot.
"Where's Peachornby?" he asked. "You. Mason. Where's your captain?"
"Dunno, do I?" said Mason, sulkily.
"You won't add to your score card with that attitude, lad. Now, I'll bowl a second ball and hopefully you'll bat it my way..."
"Huh?" said Lukasz to Patryk.
"Don't ask," Patryk whispered back.
"...You understand, lad. I'll bowl you a nice and simple full toss. Where's Peachornby."
This time, Mason cottoned on. "He couldn't come. He's at home. Said he was seeing some backers."
Superintendent Donelan pointed at Mason. "Have you called him? Let him know about your innings collapse here?"
Mason raised his torso up off the stones and shook his head. "No. No time."
"Excellent. Sergeant Brent, pick your finest and come with me."
Sergeant Brent, the brusque officer from earlier, shouted out three names and swung up behind the wheel. Superintendent Donelan got into the shotgun seat. Before he closed the door, Donelan leaned back. "You two, get in the back. You opened the batting, you might as well see this debacle through."
Patryk and Lukasz glanced at each other. "Might as well," Lukasz said.
The OSU carrier turned in a tight circle and then headed back down the access road, past the line of police vehicles towards the gate.
Once out of the Bass Maltings, Sergeant Brent switched on the blues and twos and stepped on the gas.