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e。
The Battle of Highbury was moving south。 Rival factions appeared to have formed a coalition。 Red…and…white and blue…and…white scarves were brandished side by side。 Other groups joined them； crazy mobs with no interest in either team。 Football was forgotten…it was plain mob…law now。
They had remembered the threat； and they had a destination…Westminster； and Downing Street。 They blazed a trail of destruction as they marched…shop windows； private houses； parked cars overturned。 Mass frenzy。
Then； suddenly； it all came to a stop as a line of armoured trucks barred their way。 Soldiers fired shots into the air。 The retreat was disorderly； panic…stricken； a total anti climax。
Three rioters were trampled to death。
The OC was not fooled by the simplicity of it all。 A dangerous mob had been halted by one volley of shots over their heads simply because they had never e up against military resistance before。 They would retreat； lick their wounds…but next time a few warning shots would not halt them。 A bluff is seldom successfully called twice。
Canverdale had snatched a few hours sleep following his appointment as Prime Minister and by midday Sunday he was working with the efficiency of a well…oiled machine。 Tall and lean； almost totally bald； he had a resilience that was well…known to all who had worked with him in his party in the past。 Odds meant nothing to him； he never gave up。 He ate sandwiches at his desk as he talked on the telephone。 He had no reservations about speaking with his mouth full； and he had little patience with those who asked him to repeat a sentence。
The re…establishment of law and order was his priority； for no government can tackle a crisis efficiently in the midst of anarchy。 He had the facts and figures of the previous day's rioting on his desk before him。 They did not make pleasant reading。
His first call was direct to Belfast。 He wanted up…to…date information； ahead of the press。 Already he had contemplated a partial withdrawal of troops from Northern Ireland。 An auxiliary force； a show of extra strength to curb the rising anarchy。
He groaned at the news。 Saturday had been the worst night of terror in Belfast for six years。 He had no time to listen to the details。
He sat through a call to the head of Oxide Reprocessing。 Dyne sounded weary； as though he had not been to bed all night。
'Well；' Canverdale barked； 'what's the current reading on our very own atomic bomb？'
'Bad。' Dyne's sigh was audible over the line。 'It's risen three degrees during the night。 At the previous rate of escaping radioactivity； it wouldn't have attained this level until Tuesday。'
'Which brings Doomsday two days nearer。' Canverdale pushed the plate of ham sandwiches away。 'Next Saturday； in fact。 A decision will have to be made on Friday…maybe sooner。 Ring me if the pressure shows any signs of a further rate of increase。'
He replaced the receiver； and then made another call。
Chapter 12
Sunday。 Transistor radios had conveyed into the valley the news of the widespread rioting throughout Britain。
Coyle and Anne lay listening to the extended bulletin。 It was warm between the folds of the two sleeping…bags which they had zipped together。 The inflated mattress beneath gave them added fort。 Apart from the stark surroundings of filing cabinets and a desk heaped with pending correspondence； they might as well have spent an adulterous night in some three…star hotel。 Still clasped in the embrace in which they had slept； they listened to every detail of the early morning London news。
The night of terror had now subsided somewhat。 The rioters were licking their wounds； their losses heavy。 It was emphasised that no casualties were due to action by military law。 Those who had suffered had done so through their own behaviour； many unwittingly swept along in a tide of human madness。 There was no hint of further measures being taken to safeguard life and property。 The situation was static。 Emergency services would be maintained。 People were urged to go to work as usual on the morrow。 There was optimism in the newscaster's voice…all part of the policy： keep the people calm。 There was no mention of fuel rationing； either。 Coyle supposed there were sufficient supplies to enable Britain to carry on until it disintegrated…or； by some miracle； normality returned。
He leaned over to switch off the tiny transistor； wondering what Jane was doing without him。 The thought troubled his conscience： it was bloody selfish of him。 He hadn't intended being absent the whole night； but it had been impossible to drag himself away from Anne。 There was so little time left 。。。
'D'you know what I'd like most from you； Bob？' she murmured； beginning to fondle him again。
'What's that？'
'I'd like to be pregnant。 A baby。 By you。'
The idea flattered him。 Something they had guarded against throughout the whole of their affair； and now when she…no； both of them…wanted it most； it was impossible。 A strange quirk of fate。 He sighed deeply。
'Well； we certainly didn't take any precautions last night。'
'And we're not going to now。' She took the initiative and clambered on top of him。 'The time of the month is right； too。 Even 。 。 。 even if there isn't time left； I'd still know。'
'How？'
'Intuition。 Something you just can't put into words。 Some women are sure within a couple of days。 Just something you know but can't explain。'
They fell silent except for a quickening of their breath and the movement of their bodies。 She was pressing down hard on him； then they were jerking in harmony； clutching at each other； her fingernails gouging his shoulders； rolling out of the warmth of the sleeping…bag on to the hardness of the floor。 They never even noticed it； lying coupled for some time afterwards； basking in the warmth of mutual love。 Coyle hoped that he had given her what she wanted； though precious few days were left。 Intuition or not； he wanted to hear those words from her own lips： 'You've given me a baby； Bob。'
The ringing of the telephone caused them to disengage with reluctance。
'Who the hell can be ringing the office on a Sunday morning？' he muttered； picking up the receiver； and perching on the edge of the desk； stark naked。
'Coyle speaking。'
'Rollason here。 I tried to get you at home but your wife said you didn't e in last night。 Getting a special edition out？' A hint of sarcasm？
'No； I just had 。 。 。 things to catch up on。'
'I wondered if you were going to bring out a 。。。 a final edition of the Herald。'
'You're being pessimistic； Rollason。 It may not happen。'
'That's something we won't know until it either does or doesn't。 Anyway； I just wanted to ask you to play it down as much as possible。 A personal favour。 You must be fully aware of what's happening outside； throughout the rest of the country。 I'm worried about when it's going to start here； so I'd appreciate it if you didn't dig up any m