around, Connor guessed many of his fellow eager pilgrims were older than him, but he saw a few who couldn’t have been more than ten years old, dragging their older brothers or sisters forward. Here and there the odd parent stood out like a watchful pillar of negativity and disapproval and he hoped they would have the good taste to merge into the background at the Landguard. Tonight was no place for the olds.
He could feel a buzz of anticipation and excitement in the air. It was a carnival-like atmosphere. Some had brought torches and were waving them about, making patterns of light in front of them. Once the caravan park had been passed, they shone into the dark desolation that stretched between the sandhills and the road – startling the rabbits. Those sandhills formed a high, humpy spine all the way to the fort and Conor could see figures silhouetted against the sky on the ridge path, making their way along them. They were approaching the Landguard from the other side, to loop around it and join the rest of them in front of the gatehouse.
Everyone was hoping for something special that night, a new experience – a new thrill. There was a tremendous feeling of not knowing what was going to happen. It was almost quarter to nine and around the last bend in the road, the squat, solid bulk of the pentagonal fortress appeared in the distance. Conor half expected to see searchlights fanning the sky and sweeping dazzling discs over the fort’s brickwork, but there was nothing, just the steady march of the people river heading towards it and the glittering expanse of the port next door.
The present fortress on Landguard Point is a hybrid spanning the centuries. The five-sided structure, with its bastions at every corner, was built in 1744, but heavily modified and refurbished in 1871. Yet there had been some type of fortification there since the days of Henry VIII, for the harbour is the deepest water between the Thames and the Humber and of strategic significance. If an enemy could land troops there, they would be dangerously close to London. In 1667 the last opposed invasion of England took place when the Dutch attacked the fort. Their aim was to burn the ships in the harbour. But the garrison stationed in the Landguard defended it brilliantly, despite being vastly outnumbered, and the Dutch forces were successfully repelled.
That night a new invasion looked to be taking place. As Conor drew closer to the fort, he was amazed at the numbers. There were thousands of people gathering there. They filled the small car park, stood on the mounded verges and pressed against the railings of the empty moat. Conor had only seen such crowds at football matches or gigs before and he clapped his hands appreciatively. It was going to be an unforgettable night.
Martin Baxter and Paul were also making their way down to the fort. They too were astonished at the volume of human traffic and Martin began to grow concerned. There didn’t appear to be any safety measures in place, no crowd-control stewards anywhere. People were drifting across the road. There was no pavement, just a narrow strip of scrappy grass on one side. When cars beeped to get through, the pedestrians shouted and banged on the car bonnets before getting out of the way.
What Conor had found so exhilarating, Martin felt intimidated – even threatened – by.
“You know,” he said to Paul. “I’m not sure this was such a good idea.”
The boy couldn’t disagree more. “It’s brilliant!” he said. “We’re almost there now – almost at the fort. We’ll be able to see who it is!”
But Martin wasn’t certain there was anything or anyone to see. There were no vans, no swanky cars and certainly no cameras. The Landguard looked the same as it always did at night – blank and brooding and more than a little sinister.
Martin pulled out his mobile and made a worried call to the police.
It was five to nine and the crowds who had got there early were getting shunted against the fences and railings by the relentless influx of people pouring down the road and up from the beach. Many of them were drinking.
Somewhere in there, Ashleigh and Keeley were bitching about Emma and peering up at the fort doubtfully.
“Why’s it so dark though?” Ashleigh asked. “Where’s the lights and stuff? Where’s the music?”
“Must be inside,” Keeley answered. “There’ll probably be a big blast of sound and them big doors’ll open and it’ll all start.”
“Hey – who you pushing!” Ashleigh yelled as someone stumbled into her.
“This is literally crammed and I mean it,” Keeley grumbled.
At two minutes to nine, Martin pulled Paul to the very edge of the road and refused to go any further. People jostled and shoved by them. It was getting alarming now.
“But Martin!” the boy cried. “We’re so close!”
“No,” he said firmly. “This is madness. We’re going back.”
Paul stared at him beseechingly, but Martin would not be persuaded. The eleven-year-old caught himself about to whine and stopped it immediately. Carol had raised him not to be one of those people who pestered and sulked to get their own way. He didn’t like Martin’s decision, but he had to accept it.
Trying to walk against the oncoming flow was almost impossible though. The best they could do was stand by the edge and let people pass until the numbers began to thin.
Conor checked the time on his phone. It was dead on nine.
The assembled multitude halted and every face was trained on the Landguard Fort’s stout walls. It felt like the countdown to New Year. They held their breath and expected a fanfare, fireworks, an explosion of light and sound and colour. Flashes sparkled from phone cameras and they waited.
Nothing.
Murmurs of discontent began to ripple through the massive crowd. Someone began a slow handclap and others joined in. Voices chanted, “Why are we waiting…?”
Still nothing.
“This is so wrong!” Ashleigh moaned.
“Where’s the celeb and paps?” Keeley griped. “I am sincerely freezing my legs off here.”
There was a rumble of thunder overhead.
The people still on the beach who could not see that nothing was happening around the front of the fort were getting restless and resentful. They started pushing and trying to get on to the path. Others played their own music from their phones. Tempers began to flare. The expectation and excitement had completely gone, replaced by a sense of being cheated, and people were now feeling angry.
Conor turned around and thrust himself back through the crush. This was a washout, a hoax – someone’s lame idea of a joke. He wasn’t going to waste another minute of his precious Friday night squashed here. He barged through, none too gently, standing on heels and kicking ankles. Someone roared in his ear and he felt a thump in his back. The fighting began.
It spread through the vast crowd in a violent wave and panic took over.
Ashleigh was slammed against Keeley as a lad blundered into her, felled by a headbutt. The girl kicked him then swung her elbow into his stunned face and broke his nose.
“I’m leavin’!” Keeley cried above the riot. She took her perfume from her handbag and held it in front of her, like a vampire hunter with a bottle of holy water, and sprayed it in the eyes of anyone who came too close or whoever she didn’t like the look of.
Fists and bottles were flung in every direction.
Walking back along the road, Martin and Paul heard the fierce shouts and screams behind and they turned to see the furious mob that the crowd had become.
“Hell!” Martin said as it spilled back on to the road and a bottle came sailing through the air to explode into white dust on the tarmac. “We’ve got to get out of here, fast.” Taking Paul’s hand, the two ran into the nature reserve and across to the sandhills.
Chaos and aggression raged behind them. He could hear children crying in that seething rabble, but the parents and older siblings who came with them managed to get them out of the brawl