Free Edge of Eternity by Ken Follett Page A

mob; but now a young girl came out of the building with a pail of water and some plastic cups. She gave a drink to Mrs Jones, then came to Maria, who gratefully downed a cup of water and asked for another.
    A young white man approached with a look of concern. He had a face like a rodent, forehead and chin angling back from a sharp nose and buck teeth, red-brown hair slicked back with pomade. ‘How are you doing, darling?’ he said to Maria. But he was concealing something, and as Maria started to reply he raised a crowbar high in the air and brought it down, aiming at the top of her head. George flung out an arm to protect her, and the bar came down hard on his left forearm. The pain was agonizing, and he roared. The man lifted the crowbar again. Despite his arm George lunged forward, leading with his right shoulder, and barged the man so hard that he went flying.
    George turned back to Maria and saw three more of the mob running at him, evidently bent on revenging their rat-like friend. George had been premature in thinking the segregationists had had their fill of violence.
    He was used to combat. He had been on the Harvard wrestling team as an undergraduate, and had coached the team while getting his law degree. But this was not going to be a fair fight with rules. And he had only one working arm.
    On the other hand, he had gone to grade school in a Washington slum, and he knew about fighting dirty.
    They were coming at him three abreast, so he moved sideways. This not only took them away from Maria, but also turned them so that they were now advancing in single file.
    The first man swung an iron chain at him wildly.
    George danced back, and the chain missed him. The momentum of the swing threw the man off balance. As he staggered, George kicked his legs from under him, and he crashed to the ground. He lost hold of his chain.
    The second man stumbled over the first. George stepped forward, turned his back, and hit the man in the face with his right elbow, hoping to dislocate his jaw. The man gave a strangled scream and fell down, dropping his tyre iron.
    The third man stopped, suddenly scared. George stepped towards him and punched him in the face with all his might. George’s fist caught the man full on the nose. Bones crunched and blood spurted, and the man screamed in agony. It was the most satisfying blow George had ever struck in his life. To hell with Gandhi, he thought.
    Two shots rang out. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked towards the noise. One of the uniformed state troopers was holding a revolver high in the air. ‘Okay, boys, you’ve had your fun,’ he said. ‘Let’s move out.’
    George was furious. Fun? The cop had been a witness to attempted murder, and he called it fun? George was beginning to see that a police uniform did not mean much in Alabama.
    The mob returned to their cars. George noticed angrily that none of the four police officers troubled to write down any licence plates. Nor did they take any names, though they probably knew everyone anyway.
    Joseph Hugo had vanished.
    There was another explosion in the wreckage of the bus, and George guessed there must be a second fuel tank; but at this point no one was near enough to be in danger. The fire then seemed to burn itself out.
    Several people lay on the ground, many still gasping for breath after inhaling smoke. Others were bleeding from various injuries. Some were Riders, some regular passengers, black and white. George himself was clutching his left arm with his right hand, holding it against his side, trying to keep it motionless because every movement was excruciatingly painful. The four men he had tangled with were helping one another limp back to their cars.
    He managed to walk to where the patrolmen stood. ‘We need an ambulance,’ he said. ‘Maybe two.’
    The younger of the two uniformed men glared at him. ‘What did you say?’
    ‘These people need medical attention,’ George said. ‘Call an ambulance!’
    The