the crowd believe this to be me, Billy K, garrotted into the wings by a man in an Armani suit. And this in a country with a history of vanishings. Family and friends disappearing into thin air, snatched from their beds in the dead of night. The plastic cups and bottles turned to cobblestones. Ronnie knows the siege routine and digs in behind his drums. I was nearly over the barrier when a petrol bomb exploded in the rigging. Fuck it, I thought. Fuck all this. What am I wrestling half of Red Square to get back for? Barricaded into dressing rooms, hiding under room service trolleys, fans kicking in doors and sidestepping bellboys. No. Fuck that. I turned from the music and ran. I ran with the pack, invigorated, between riot police and cans of tear gas. It was exhilarating. Terrifying. The singular, swaying mass, minutes before united by the beat of a drum and electric guitar, now dispersed by mounted police swishing batons with the flourish of Alexander the Great stampeding a burning city. People fell. The athletic hurdled the fallen. I watched a man shrug his coat to the floor and sprint on, faster than the runners swaddled from the cold, faster than a man tripping, rising to his knees before a rider leaned from his saddle and whacked the air from his lungs. And the horses. What a sound, the clattering hooves on frozen stone. I ran faster, helpless against a gallop, almost patient for the crack of polished wood across my skull. But then came the lunatic fringe. A bare-chested rebel cut through the crowd and stuck a broken bottle in the flank of a horse. Men and boys, scarves tied around their noses and mouths, eyes streaming, back-pedalled and taunted the police with open hands, proving they had nothing to lose. We stood our ground, and then charged. I picked up a baton and hurled it against a line of retreating shields. This was every high from every concert. The police regrouped, reorganised, shapes practised by centurions two thousand years ago. Missiles rained. We danced in the street. Tear gas swirled like dry ice. This kid, no more than ten or eleven, skipped about blasting an aerosol horn. It was a party, a celebration of chaos. Another petrol bomb, fumes of melting plastic mixed with tear gas. My throat burned. I felt something wet on my cheek, my blood, my glorious red blood …
For a few minutes we were fucking invincible.
GJ – Fuck, what a rush!
BK – But then came the tanks, rumbling from a side street. Even the police gave them a wide berth. The crowd hushed, a few thrown stones bounced off the armour. Maybe the machine gun was only fired into the air, but the effect was panic and party over, our silly dreams broken by the reality of bullets pinging off buildings. People ran in a crouch, hands over their heads. I recognised the man five steps in front, the big man who’d shed his coat for speed, shirtsleeves rolled up, panting, hunched over by the crack of gunfire, like a fucking bear let loose on the streets. Staggering through a heap of shovelled snow then slipping, his feet higher than his head, slamming the flagstones and hurting …
GJ – Ouch. Poor guy.
BK – A terrible thing to see that, a fat man betrayed by gravity.
GJ – Fucking crazy. Kind of wish I was there … Did you stop and help?
BK – Of course I stopped.
GJ – But the police didn’t know who you were. You were just another rioter to be whipped by one of those batons … or worse.
BK – I stopped because I owed this man. He’d come to hear me sing and play and lost his coat. He was about to hear the beat of the Moscow police drummed across his back. I grabbed his arm. When he stood I thought he was swearing at me, but he was laughing, a hearty boom separate to the danger of the moment, the closing squads of uniformed thugs. He pulled me down a side street where old ladies stood aghast with bags of shopping. The more sprightly officers had broken unit and chased down stragglers with neck-high tackles. I heard shouting behind me, orders to halt. My coatless friend spun on his heels. He extended his arm into the visor