Backlash by Nick Oldham Page B

thirteen. But they looked evil, all in black. Terrifying. She could not help but draw a breath.
    They raised the bottles. One screamed, ‘Have these, you black twats.’
    â€˜Get down!’ Roscoe shouted. She threw herself at Rafiq and dragged him to the floor behind the counter. As she moved she saw the petrol bombs arc through the air, spinning slowly, almost in slow motion, flames whipping round like a Catherine wheel.
    The bombers scarpered, screaming gleefully.
    The bottles landed virtually simultaneously on the hard floor in front of the counter. Petrol and flames sprayed everywhere. Roscoe and Rafiq huddled down behind the counter. For a few moments the heat above them was intense. Tongues of orange flames licked across the counter top, then died back.
    Roscoe could not stay down for long. Christ, she thought, what’s happened to Dave?
    Another explosion, this time a massive one, boomed outside.
    Dave Seymour’s eyes jumped open as the first three petrol bombs hit the wide paved area between where he sat in the car and the Khan’s shop front. All three ignited with a powerful whoosh. He saw two youths kick the shop door open and enter, each holding a lighted petrol bomb.
    Before he could open the car door, the front windscreen was smashed by someone wielding an iron bar. The side window was broken by another person, sending pieces of glass into his face and his clothing. Then the rear window went. There must have been a dozen of them surrounding the car, all brandishing iron bars, bats or chunks of wood, all wearing black hoods or masks.
    Seymour’s insides contracted and he knew he was in deep trouble.
    One of them hurled a petrol bomb into the car through the hole in the windscreen. Seymour saw it coming and cowered away, but there was nowhere he could go, nothing he could do, it landed on his lap but did not smash.
    Seymour had a moment of relief. Just a moment.
    As he picked up the flaming bottle the lighted wick dropped out of the neck. Petrol gushed out over Seymour’s thighs and groin. It ignited.
    â€˜Cop bastard! Cop bastard,’ the people surrounding his car chanted mercilessly. There was laughter and triumph in their voices. ‘Burn you bastard, burn!’
    Seymour screamed horribly. He managed to open the door and fell out of the car onto his knees, desperately trying to bat out the flames with his bare hands. Where one flame went out, another came to life. Bigger. Hotter. Taking a better hold on his clothing, licking up his shirt front towards his face. ‘Help me, help me,’ he screamed.
    No one did.
    Somehow he got to his feet and staggered towards the shop.
    â€˜Cop bastard, cop bastard,’ rang in his ears. ‘Burn! Burn! Burn!’
    Behind him more bombs smashed around the CID car. It went up in flames.
    Roscoe had had enough petrol bombs thrown at her during the days when she did riot training to know not to be afraid of them. ‘Petrol reception’ the classes had been mis-called. But unlike the majority of the training she had done in the police, the lessons learned about petrol bombs had stuck with her – because they had been about self-preservation. They had taught her that if you kept your eyes on the bombs as they came towards you and made sure they didn’t hit you on the head, they did not present too great a personal threat. They looked effective, frightened the living daylights out of people, made for good TV but, if treated with respect, they were not something to worry about too much.
    Having walked through pools of blazing petrol during those training sessions – albeit kitted up with stout steel toe-capped boots, flame retardant overalls, protective masks and headgear – she knew it was quite feasible to walk through flames unscathed – if you were quick enough and didn’t admire the countryside along the way. Although not exactly dressed for the part, she knew she had somehow to get through the flames