"As it comes."
"The old fart with the medals is in hospital. Heart attack during the disturbance your lot created. I'm just leaving there now. His grandson who is closely involved with the EFL is one real bad boy it turns out. Just released on a life-licence; a cop-killer would you believe?"
Benny Mann whistled thinly through yellowed teeth. "Now that is very, very good news."
"It gets even better honeybee." She gushed. "Daddy has seen to it that my Monday column be brought forward to the Sunday edition, but it has also been syndicated to at least three nationals. This riot of yours could be the making of me."
"Got to be worth a shag in the week then?"
"Why wait, where are you now tiger?"
"Uh, I'm in London with a BBC news editor of long acquaintance. We're doing a cut 'n shut job on the footage we got today in Holtingham. Should get it out in time for the six o'clock bulletin. Hollywood couldn't do it better. Be a real ball-breaker for this EFL. Power to the UA-F people! Great to have friends in the right places ain't it?
"Then I've got a couple of TV interviews lined up for Newsnight and Breakfast TV, educate the great unwashed British public all about those nasty Nazis in Holtingham."
"We're a winning team Benny."
"The race is already won Juicy Lucy. We'll do a lap of honour on that bed of yours in the week. Keep your motor running girl."
***
Chris turned the Landrover out onto the by-pass, eyes more focussed on the rear view mirror than on the road ahead. Grandpa had been right. That posh girl was a conniving little package, got her own agenda. Didn't everybody nowadays?
He was heading back towards Holtingham. On his way into town he would call into Squires Court, see if that absentee Sid had surfaced.
******
SIXTEEN
Anglian Chronical: Sunday 18th November.
'Holtingham is a quiet English town bordering the Fenlands, that has been torn apart by a display of intolerance and hate reminiscent of Mosley's Blackshirts in the 1930's.
These events may be separated by over seventy years, but yesterday proved that the lessons of history are not always taken on board by some sections of society. Namely the sub-educated, lower socio-income strata of young white men ever eager to offload the burden of their own underachievement. Invariably, the targets for their resentment are minority groups amongst us who fled to this country seeking sanctity from persecution, torture and death, only to find parallel threats levelled at them from our home-bred despots.
Who are these renegades from decency, so filled with loathing for their fellow man? We have seen the rise and fall of the national Front and the stagnation of the BNP. Now in Holtingham we are seeing a new manifestation of the same old right wing extremists.
The English front Line (EFL), is just the latest manifestation of Neo-Fascist politics of supremacy and intolerance, hiding behind the gooey façade of patriotism and national pride.
They marched yesterday against the express advice of the Chief Constable, to accuse the town's Asian population for the recent rise in petty vandalism; the real perpetrators we can only guess at.
The self appointed Standartenfuehrer of this stalwart band, defenders of an England that exists only in their stunted, Bier-Keller fuelled imaginations, is one Christopher Carter, thirty-four years of age. He has only just returned to Holtingham after a long absence. He was recently released on licence from Her Majesty's Prison Norwich after serving fifteen years for the brutal murder of a young police officer in 1997.
Just to add to the general loveliness of the Carter family, his grandfather Henry Carter, is currently awaiting a decision from the Director of Public Prosecutions office whether to proceed on a charge of Hate Crime after a virulent, verbal outburst directed against the immigrant population of Holtingham
I understand that he is currently receiving hospital treatment after his participation in yesterday's violent disorder, during which EFL members viciously attacked, without provocation, a small number of counter-demonstrators opposing them and their views. Namely members of the pacifist Union of Anti-Fascists (UA-F), a decade old movement founded and led by Mr. Bernard Mann, a veteran campaigner for equality and world peace. Indeed the UA-F receive a degree of government funding in recognition of a proud record in opposing far right organisations and their attempts to be engaged in the democratic process's of this country.
To quote Mr. Mann, "The EFL are yet another insidious conspiracy to incite racial tension and the demonization of Islam. As a humane and progressive multi-cultural society, we in Britain must all link our arms to deny passage for these people towards their ambitions. We cannot, will not, tolerate another Holocaust."
A sentiment that I wholly endorse and call on our police chiefs to ensure a fitting punishment for those who tore apart this quiet English town yesterday, and for the Mother of Parliaments, to have the moral courage to ban this conspiracy of evil - the English Front Line!
Lucy Lever: community and current affairs correspondent.
***
Chris shook his head in utter disbelief, pain flaring behind his eyes, but nowhere as acute as that in his heart. "Are they allowed to print these lies?" He moaned in despair.
Barry Wells put his pint glass back down onto the small table between them. "Depends on who has the biggest lawyers."
"I thought there was an inquiry going on into press ethics and standards, to protect people like us."
"Celebrity are you? You can forget all that baloney, ain't going to happen. Not for the likes of us."
"But we're just protecting what's ours. Since when has self-defence been political extremism?"
"Since during the time you went into prison and came out again fifteen years later. Half of this country is living in a fantasy world of their own making, and the other half are too frightened to point out a few home-truths for fear of being labelled racist, homophobic and all the other homo's, and getting dragged into a kangaroo court. Grandpa being a case of illustration."
In sheer frustration Chris screwed the newspaper into a tight ball and threw it at the wall behind them.
"Oi!" the barman admonished. "What do you think this is, a basket-ball court?"
"How is your grandpa now?" Barry asked, changing the subject quickly.
Chris stared into his drink, deflated. "Saw him this morning, not much change there. Showing some signs of awareness, eyelids fluttering, that sort of thing. But his age, who knows?"
"Going again today? I'd like to come too if that is all right."
"'Course mate." Chris made no attempt to hide his pleasure and gratitude. "Tell you what, let's risk a bite of lunch here then go and see if Sid's back on our way out of town. I tried again yesterday but no luck.
"Getting a bit worried actually, I'm sure he'd have said something if he was going away for a time."
"That bugger is probably yomping all the way back to Afghanistan. He ain't finished with those bastards yet. Too much history now poor sod."
***
As to be expected, the warden of Squires Court was not to be found around the development or in her own bungalow. Sunday afternoon Barry had suggested, she'd probably be with all the other women of a certain age down at the Bingo Hall. Cut-price gaming for the masses. Kept them off of the streets, injected a sliver of hope into bereft lives. For a surreal moment, Chris pondered if Sid had gone with them.
For want of anything better to do, they strolled across to Sid's front door, the 'let yourself in' notice limp and yellowed in the damp November air. With no response to their knock, Barry, exasperated, reached for the handle.
"Fuck this, if it's open lets have a peek. He could be trapped in the bath with his only big toe stuck up a tap."
Surprised that the door was actually unlocked with the owner gone for some days, they edged guiltily along the narrow hallway like naughty schoolboys on a dare. The sound of angry voices in the lounge was quite distinct from there. Barry, slightly in front hesitated, until Chris prod
ded him forward.
"The note specifically invited us in." He whispered. "So go on."
Tentatively they stepped into the room where James Cagney was bad-mouthing a Chicago cop. Chris turned the TV off, frowning as he looked about the shadowy room.
"Obviously left in a big hurry."
"Blimey, I know that Sid ain't too big on housekeeping, only having one leg and arm and all. But even for Sid this place is looking very under-class chic." Barry was looking concerned himself now.
"True." Chris nodded at an overturned chair, the coffee table pushed aside at an odd angle. There was a mug laying on the sofa cushions, a damp patch of coffee or tea staining the fabric. "Let's look around his bedroom?"
Neither could claim an intimate knowledge of Sid 'Sandwich's' wardrobe, but the impression was that no significant amount of clothing had been taken anywhere. A rather battered but serviceable suitcase sat quite accessible on the top of a freestanding wardrobe. Alongside it was also a bulging, Khaki-brown kit bag, presumably stuffed with his army gear.
In a drawer Barry found a biscuit tin containing his passport and driving licence for which he would possibly have no further use with his disabilities. More worrying was a worn and cracked leather wallet containing forty pounds, credit and debit cards along with other personal paraphernalia.
He clicked his tongue looking very thoughtful. "How long do you think he's been gone?"
"I saw him on Monday, tried again on Friday, but he'd gone a while by then. So anything from three to five days? There's no telling."
Barry returned the items to the tin, shut it in the drawer. "So he ain't just popped out to the chippy then."
"Who's going to notify the police, report him as a missing person. He's got no family, and I wouldn't get much credence if I go walking through their door as a publicly minded citizen."
"Probably shoot you on sight." Barry's eyes slid sideways at the window. "Looks like our Warden lady has returned. Why not get her motivated enough to do her fucking job and report his unexplained disappearance? She should get more attention from the boys and girls in blue if she calls it in."
"Not a bad idea." Chris agreed. "leave her with it then go and see grandpa. If she gets no joy by morning I'll dig out some details of that hospital in Birmingham he's under and that limb fitting centre, give them both a ring. There's always a possibility .. "
"Yeah, life is full of possibilities."
***
He was beginning to find Yasir Davi the newly elected Police and Crime Commissioner for northern Cambridgeshire an irksome little shite. Particularly when his Sunday afternoon at his country cottage in Hampshire was being disturbed after a wonderful lunch at an exclusive little restaurant that had no need to advertise itself; indeed would vet potential diners before condescending to reserve a table for them.
"Yes, yes, Yasir. I have seen the news report, but frankly I cannot conduct the business and responsibilities of my Ministry on the basis of sensationalist bullshit. ...... Yes, I was talking of the BBC …… No, I have never heard of them. What do they call themselves? …… The English Front Line? Assuming you are not confusing them with 'Dad's Army' …… Okay I apologise. But I would need to know much more about this group before I could even consider issuing a Banning Order. …… Mmm, I understand that the UA-F were also involved in this fracas …… Well it didn't appear that way to me. Giving as good as they got was how it looked to me …… I know they are widely respected in some quarters, but not in mine I have to say …… Yes I know he does . This government is awash with 'posh' boys looking for street-cred'. Me, I'm a grammar school boy myself. Ultimately, if it came to that, I would have to do as directed with a stiff upper lip.
"But until then Yasir I will examine the known facts of the occurrence at Holtingham yesterday and let you know …… Good, we'll speak soon, enjoy what is left of the weekend. Goodbye."
With a grimace of annoyance and distaste, Roger Palmer, Home Secretary, switched off his mobile then jabbed at the log fire in front of him with a long wrought iron poker. Stretching out luxuriously in his leather recliner, he was soon back asleep.
Tomorrow was another day. Sundays were for eating and sleeping.
***
Grandpa apparently was much improved. He had regained consciousness hours before and was already demanding to be let home. Impossible of course, but encouraging non-the-less.
Yes Chris and his friend could go in and visit him now for a short while, but they were not to get him worked up over anything. That, Chris interpreted, as a delicate instruction not to discuss the Sunday newspapers.
One eye popped open as the two young men sidled into his small room and around to each side of his bed..
"Gawd, I thought I was seeing double there for a second. How are you Barry?"
Barry grinned a little forcibly as he sat down in a visitors' chair. "I'm fine Mr. Carter. More to the point, how are you now?"
Henry Carter snorted like a tethered bull. "Bloody bored in here! They won't give me my trousers back so I can leave." He looked imploringly at Chris. "You come to fetch me lad?"
Chris shook his head emphatically, the pain was easing now. "No grandpa. The doctors want you in here for a few days yet. Don't argue with them, they know what they are talking about. You had a real bad turn, need rest and quiet. No more street riots." He smiled guardedly, could have bitten his tongue off.
The old man's face darkened suddenly. "Those yobs attacked us, who were they?"
Chris shrugged. "Just some rent-a-mob from London. Left wing professional agitators, not one of them ever had a job I suspect. Filthy capitalists one day, motorway by-passes the next. Somebody let them loose on us for whatever reason."
Henry's chin jutted forward combatively, still the old warrior. "Time was I'd have been in there with you boys, broke a few heads." He sighed nostalgically. "How is your mate Sid, coping is he?"
Chris and Barry exchanged a quick glance across the bed top.
"Uh-huh, He's gone back up to Birmingham for further treatment. It'll take a long while to get him back together in half reasonable shape." Chris lied.
"Marvellous places those new military hospitals. Our lads deserve the best care available."
"Yep, don't worry about Sid grandpa. I'll bet he is in good hands."
******
SEVENTEEN
Why he should suffer Monday morning blues in accord with the countless hordes of trolls queuing in the rain for unreliable transport, or sitting in stationary traffic as they dragged their weary souls back to work, he couldn't fathom.
At fifty-five years of age Roger Palmer had only ever known seven day working weeks and had never clocked-in anywhere in his former life. A former Olympian long distance runner, he had embarked upon life's treacherous journey with the desperation charged enthusiasm of a young man from a modest background with grand ambition: grab his share.
Manufacturing had been his natural route to material success, graduating with an engineering degree; evolving from a flop haired young entrepreneur to a captain of industry knocking out heavy earth moving machinery for the construction industry.
His own mid-life crisis, erupting in his late forties, was not for open topped sports cars or outrageous toupees, but for politics. A passion conceived by anger and frustration at the manipulation of reoccurring boom and bust economics for the calculated enrichment of banks and their politician lackeys.
With just a vague plan of beating them at their own games, he had sold his struggling factories and offices to a Chinese conglomerate more accustomed to a child and slave-labour work pool. Taking his millions he joined his local party of choice. Millions that were eviscerated quite expertly by an avaricious second ex-wife, directionless twin sons and large party donations which at least rewarded him with selection to stand at the next election which he won to the surprise of all.
Now his drive and commitment that had pushed him to the top of the dirty pile in both industry and politics had drained his legendary ener
gy. Metaphorically he was spent, breathless with hands on knees bent double at the finish line.
Being Home Secretary he had found, just weeks into the job, was not the exhilarating pinnacle of self achievement he was accustomed to. But a tiresome Rollerball race enacted in an endless circular track strewn with deadly ambush. The haunt of political and media cut-throats clad in tailored suits, skating up from behind, ready to stab and hack remorselessly in a moment's relaxation of caution or judgement. He was tired, disillusioned, wallowing in a deep mud pool of uncertain footing.
Glum faced he gazed abstractedly out of the tall, sealed-unit windows of the Home Office block on Marsham Street, tucked up the arse end of Westminster. Not even a decent view of the river. Outside snow fell steadily onto the grimy bricks and mortar he overlooked, laying a protective cape over the grim reality: a fragile deceit so readily melted away under the heat of daylight exposure. So very much like politics.
A soft knock on his office door was merely the prim, perfunctory politeness as expected before it opened regardless of invitation. His Principal Private Secretary, Graham Turner glided into the room with an economy of visible effort.
"You rang through for me Minister?" He enquired lightly, his greeting totally lacking in warmth or familiarity. A Civil Servant of the most traditional order.
He was a tall man, very thin, a hovering spectral presence, habitually clad in tailored black and white; an undertaker moonlighting as a butler. He stood before the Home Secretary's wide desk bent forward like a tower crane, a hazard to aeronautical traffic.
Graham Turner's role was to serve, advise, assist his current Minister's every action, thought and proposition with honesty, integrity and above all, impartiality. Totally non-political, the Civil Service Private Secretaries were servant to no one political creed or conviction. When one Minister moved on there was always another hovering in the opened doorway with new enthusiasms and misconceptions that needed guidance, caution, re-writing; their arses wiped.
"Yes Graham I certainly did." Palmer rolled his chair around from the window and looked all the way up at him. "I take it you read the papers yesterday?"
"Some Minister. The popular press I use for fire-lighters. Don't you find that damp coal is a bugger to light?" His face creased into a ghastly grimace that Palmer guessed was a smile.