If Snow Hadn't Fallen (a Lacey Flint short story)

so close and was familiar with the layout of the park. Someone else might not have known where the Parks Department kept their water-hose, or how to bypass the locking device that prevents unauthorized use.
    Nothing about it felt lucky at the time.
    My coat was starting to smoulder. I gave up on it and ran instead for the hose as the sirens drew closer. It took much longer than I’d have liked to unravel it and turn it on, and when I got back he was still on fire. The flames gave way quickly to the water, though, and were out in seconds. I carried on hosing him down, knowing that cold water is the best immediate treatment for burns, until it occurred to me that I might actually be drowning him.
    ‘DC Flint in Larkhill Park, Kennington, requesting urgent assistance. One casualty. Possible fatality. Ambulance needed. Very serious burns.’
    The last was an assumption on my part. A reasonable one, in the circumstances, but I could see very little.
    ‘Five suspects running in a westerly direction across the park towards the Wandsworth Road,’ I went on. ‘Casualty believed to be male.’ I’d seen the size of the feet sticking out from beneath my coat, the masculine-looking shoes. And he was tall. Not far short of six foot.
    People were coming. I could hear voices, running footsteps. A uniformed female constable appeared at the gates, followed by an older, heavier male. They took in the figure at my feet and stopped dead.
    I don’t remember much about the next half-hour – just more and more people arriving. Onlookers and rubberneckers at first, driven by macabre curiosity and easy to contain. But more and more came, outnumbering the police, giving me no choice but to pitch in and help. One quick-thinking copper gave me his high-vis jacket so it was a bit clearer which side I was on.
    The railings around the park should have helped, and for a while they did. We kept the crowd on the other side of the gate and they were content to watch from a distance. But as the crowd got bigger, those at the back couldn’t see, and those with a little more courage (or a little less human decency) started to scale the railings and creep closer. We had to spread out, forming a circle around the figure. The female constable who’d arrived first and her partner were kneeling by the body, trying to administer some immediate first aid, and I was massively grateful. I couldn’t have done it.
    Curiosity inevitably gave way to unrest. Few people like being told what to do by the police, and soon the crowd started to shout angrily. Accusations flew like sparks. A middle-aged man in traditional Muslim clothes, with black hair and dark skin, pushed his way to the front of the crowd, yelling about his son. Where was his son? Someone had hurt his son, let him through, he had to get to his son. More men appeared, some the same age as the first, some younger, then a few hijab-clad women, their brown eyes bewildered and scared.
    Arguments began to break out. Everyone wanted to get closer to the body. No one wanted to go home. Someone stood on my foot, someone else elbowed me hard in the face, and all the while, heavily accented voices were shouting about someone’s son, someone’s brother and why couldn’t the fuckin’ pigs let them through.
    While they did so, the man lay on the ground, horribly injured, possibly dead.
    The uniformed sergeant in charge did his best, but it was an impossible situation. The ambulance arrived and the crowd, to give them their due, allowed the paramedics through unscathed, but then surged forward again as the police barrier began to weaken.
    The sergeant went down. A constable who stooped to help him was knocked off his feet. We’d lost control. It happens so quickly in crowds: one second everything’s in hand, the next all hell is breaking loose and all you can really do is run for it and regroup. People often ask the police, are you ever afraid? I was afraid that night, in the midst of a crowd that was quickly becoming a mob.
    As the police cordon broke, the man who’d been yelling for his son ran forward. Others followed – there was a small woman, with a long scarf over her head, and one of the men put an arm around her as they hurried forward. The sergeant, back on his feet and with one arm raised high in a surrender gesture, held on to the first man’s shoulder. ‘Stand back, sir,’ he tried. ‘Let the paramedics do their job.’ He was pushed away. The man knelt down by the injured body. I