"That figures, he's one of the pair rousted me the other day when I met you in the pub, reckoned I was hanging around the school gates with a purpose. Cheeky fucks!"
"You're a wanted man alright."
A uniformed Inspector appeared at the back of the van, glaring malevolently in at Chris. "Right you two you're nicked."
"Oh, what for?" Chris asked mildly.
"Public disorder, assaulting a police officer. I'll think up a few more charges back at the station." He snapped.
Barry pointed in the direction of the mosque doors. "What about the Swirling Dervishes in there? I don't see any of them under arrest."
"Of course not, they have a right to protest without being attacked by your sort." With a final vitriolic glare at Chris. The Inspector slammed the outer doors shut, slapping on them hard to signal for the driver to take them away, watched angrily by a tall stern figure behind.
Henry Carter had lost an argument. Chris would appear in court in the morning, little more he could do right now for his grandson. Passing custodianship of the Legion banner to another, he grasped the handles of Sid's wheelchair.
"Right then boy, lets do what we came here for this morning, tomorrow's another day, another battle."
The road ahead now was miraculously clear, and on his signal the band shakily launched into 'The British Grenadier' as they continued on to the War Memorial to thunderous applause from the enervated crowds. A lost argument he could take, but the day was won.
***
From a first floor window of the Mosque, two pairs of eyes had watched the mini drama below unfold and conclude. The voice at Kamal Khan's shoulder was a serpent's hiss.
"So, those were your Jihadists, 'The Invaders', they are going to take over the world?" There was no mistaking a slight mocking tone.
Khan's voice rumbled through his thick beard, cold, dismissive. "We are but one grain of sand in the storm to come. Many mosques across England now teach the true message of Islam. When I give the word, we will strike, and many more will then follow our lead. Then all of England will belong to Allah."
"So why wait? Take the initiative now. History proves that he who strikes first is usually the victor. It is also a fact that to bring down the fortress walls it is best to attack from the inside.
"We have much the same objectives Kamal, your movement and mine. Destroy the establishment and culture if this country. Kill the constitution the rest will collapse in line. I care not which religion prevails, I have no God other than power.
"I have the sympathetic ear of many politicians, the intellectual brigade and much of the media. Political correctness is my weapon of choice. You must provide the foot soldiers for our war." Benny Mann patted the stiffened shoulder of the Imam, aware of how he was despised but needed. "We must work together as allies, rejoice together come the revolution!"
******
NINE
Chris Carter had had a bit of a rough night. Word had gone around among the late shift that they'd a cop-killer in the cells. There is an art in beating someone without leaving tell-tale marks and bruising. A second and third party to hold them still helps. His ribs ached like hell and there were lumps and bumps on his head a phrenologist would not have expected to find at all. His scalp had resumed bleeding with all the attention and his rumpled shirt collar was stained red at the back.
Now he knew better than to retaliate. He could always hold his own in a ruck. But prison was fertile ground for institutional violence, some of the screws had quite fancied their enhanced chances when he'd arrived there. He'd learnt quickly that there were odds and there were downright certainties. Some fights you could never win.
He'd refused breakfast that morning, porridge that had been spat in by half the oncoming morning crew was never going to be that appetising, hungry as he was. The custody sergeant had appeared at his cell door eight o'clock on the dot.
"Look sharp Carter, you're out of here." He barked, sour distaste on his face.
"What about my mate Barry Wells?" Chris rose warily to his feet, picking up his jacket.
"Oh him? We let him go last night with a warning. But you, you're special. We'll have to save you for another time, your brief has shown up. Come on, move it."
Chris followed him back to the front desk, a tad suspicious as to whether this was on the up or a pathetic psychological ploy to torture him further. Simon Cardew his solicitor stood waiting patiently in the front lobby, demurely studying a plethora of wall posters advising the public how to not get mugged, raped or burgled. So who needs the police then?
He turned at their arrival. "Ah Christopher. Sorry I wasn't available yesterday. You know what Sundays are like? I was sailing off of Yarmouth, beautiful day for it wasn't it?"
Chris stared at him blankly. Was he taking the piss? "That's okay Mr. Cardew. I've been well and truly looked after in here." He answered enigmatically, tossing a meaningful glance toward the sergeant.
The solicitor studied his hunched posture shrewdly. "Do you need to see a doctor?"
Chris shook his head, wincing with the effort, then smiled thinly. "I've had worse nights. Plenty of homicidal nutters in prison too."
The custody sergeant snorted. "You are being released Carter into the care of your legal representative here. This does not mean that charges for violent affray and assaulting a police officer will not be made against you at a later date."
"Sergeant." The solicitor's tone now was admonishing in a head-masterly fashion. The relaxed demeanour of a pleasant weekend pushed aside. "My client refutes any suggestion that he assaulted a police officer. If anything the reality is the reverse of that and I have a number of witnesses to that effect. I would point out that half of the population of Holtingham were present there yesterday and I have statements supporting his claim that Mr. Carter was merely attempting to apprehend a third party who had just attacked an elderly gentleman. In fact, perform a citizen's arrest, as the police officers at the scene showed little inclination to do so themselves.
"Further, if you wish, I can take Mr. Carter directly to A&E from here to assess the injury he received from a police baton and er, any subsequent evidence of maltreatment visited upon him here overnight."
The sergeant's face billowed suppressed anger and resentment. "I will convey what you say to my superiors sir." He slammed a large manila envelope down onto the counter. "Your possessions Mister Carter. Check them please then sign to say everything is all there. You are free to go.
"But with this caution. If you give cause to be arrested for any future misdeeds of this nature, this incident will be included in any legal action taken against you. Is that clear?"
"Yeah, I bet it will." Chris followed Simon Cardew out of there, blinking in the sharp Monday morning light .
***
The Weekend Review
By Lucy Lever
Yesterday, 11th. November, Remembrance Sunday, proved to be a reality check for the 'Little Englander' clique still clinging to their dated existence On that day, the new order of British society made a moral stand against the divisive crassness of this diminishing breed
With trumpets blaring and drums beating, the Holtingham Legion branch goose-stepped their march of triumphalism straight through the sensibilities and fears of a minority group of our society. With breathtaking arrogance, the organisers had paraded with them a misguided renegade to deliberately antagonise the Muslim community.
Not only has Sergeant Sydique Sahni deserted the beliefs of his own blood, but as a member of the British armed forces, has partaken in the illegal war in Afghanistan which has caused death and injury to thousands of his fellow Muslims in their homeland.
The fact of his having suffered his own injuries as a result of these misadventures does not absolve him for his participation in these wicked deeds. Allowing his loss of faith in his own God to cause further insult is unforgiveable! Indeed this provocative act may well have been the catalyst for an impulsive reaction from devout worshippers at the town's Mo
sque. A group of young men left their prayer mats to attempt to dissuade the march from continuing past their place of worship, an echo perhaps of the Blackshirts strutting through predominantly Jewish areas in the East End in the 1930's.
Regretfully large numbers of the town's under-class culture, egged on by bystanders, emerged onto the streets to attack this peaceful delegation in a most shocking and primitive manner. Amongst their number it transpires, was one Christopher Carter, grandson of the Legion Committee member Henry Carter, who was released from prison just a few days previously after serving a life sentence for murdering a young, unarmed policeman in 1997.
Thankfully he and a friend, both unemployed, were detained by police before his thuggish actions could inflict real injury to the Muslim congregation
We can only hope and expect, that the powers that be exert strong moral courage in cracking down heavily on this blatant racial violence and impose the maximum penalties available.
Wake up Britain, the times are a changing!
L.L.
***
Tears stung and creased the corners of Henry Carter's eyes, hands holding that morning's edition of the Anglian Chronical shaking with disbelief and despair. How could any responsible and professional journalist ever write such malicious, ill-informed drivel; and what is more, be allowed to do so?
His generation had grown up in a world in which your own heart and mind was the only moral guide required. Freedom of honest expression was sacrosanct, wars had been fought to maintain that precious principle.
But to abuse that right with this politically correct, insidious poison was unforgiveable. Increasingly common to the extent that it was almost the norm yes, but still an insult to truth and common decency.
Agitatedly he rose from his armchair, went to the telephone housed in an alcove out in the hallway. The newspaper's publisher's number was listed on the inside page. Dialling with twitchy, clumsy fingers, he got through to a real live receptionist rather than a recorded multi-choice hurdle. He was in further luck, Lucy Lever was at her desk, got transferred. He let rip with a pent up ire and great gusto.
***
Chris Carter refused to go home just yet, despite the allure of a shot of rum and a few hours sleep in a soft, clean bed that beckoned.
His solicitor Simon Cardew had assured him that his grandfather was perfectly okay after the disturbance of yesterday. Indeed the old soldier was in a combative mood when he had finally roused the legal man from his rest early that morning, admonishing him for his 'absence from duty', and to get down to the town's nick 'damned sharpish and get my grandson out of there before they beat him to death!'"
Cardew had politely cut his tirade short with an explanation of the need to attend the station also before they had a chance to parade Chris before the local magistrates and get their pious blessings to bang him up pending dubious charges, or worse, rescind his life-time parole.
Chris Carter requested that he be dropped off at Squires Court on the other side of town. Mumbling something about not being a taxi service Cardew nevertheless did as he was asked. Chris was in no doubt that the 'little favour' would sneak onto any forthcoming bill for services rendered.
The handwritten notice had been removed from the door of number seven, but it still opened with a light push. From the dingy hallway Chris could hear the drone of the TV, so hopefully Sid was up and about.
He found him on the same sofa and exactly identical position as the first time he had visited, yet if anything the atmosphere was even more oppressive. The curtains had been pulled together tighter than ever as if the occupant was observing a war-time blackout. In all, not a good indication of success for his current rehabilitation.
"They've gone and made my mates fucking redundant!" Sid didn't even bother looking up at him as he shouted, staring malevolently at the news programme, twisting and screwing up a rolled newspaper in his depleted grip.
"Yes thank you, and a good morning to you too Sid. No, no, I'm used to sleeping in a cell. Fucking love it don't I?" Chris's sarcasm had more than a shade of irritation to it.
Sydique looked up at him now, a vacant look on his face as if he didn't know him. "Some of the lads I served with in 40 Commando been given the chop while still on active service out in Afghanistan getting shot at! According to this bastard government it is to 'rationalise numbers of the armed forces as the draw-down exercise begins next year. In other words, we don't need you any more so fuck off. So much for the military covenant. Wankers!"
"Want a cup of tea?" Chris offered mildly.
"Any more of that whisky left?"
Chris's eyebrows lifted a little. "Should be, left it in your cereal cupboard. I'll go get it, though I should point out that the sun ain't over the yard arm just yet. It's barely over the deck rail as it happens, but way-ho."
"That's why the curtains stay closed. Can't see the bloody sun, drink when I sodding feel like it." Sid snapped, a bitter edge to his voice.
Chris returned shortly with the cups and whisky. Sid took his with a nod, slightly mollified, sipped it quietly until a thought occurred.
"Sorry, yesterday was a bit of a bummer wasn't it. Perhaps I'm not ready to re-integrate with the world out there just now."
"Well, it weren't that bad." Chris observed ruefully. "You didn't have to walk and I got a smack over the bonce, banged up all night, and slapped about a bit by the stalwart boys in blue.
"I've come straight round here to see if you are all right. So come on 'Sandwich', cheer up."
"You haven't had time to read this then?" Sid thrust the ravaged newspaper at him, carried on drinking, bigger gulps now.
Chris read the front page report, startled at the photographs of Sid out front of the parade like an emperor in his chair, himself, face contorted with rage, fists clenched, running after the fleeing protesters. There were no pic's of the pensioner laying in the roadway getting kicked, or of the banners extolling the murder of non-believers.
"This Lucy Lever can certainly spin a yarn. Should get an award for best fiction."
Sid tore his eyes away from a news report on which a well fed government minister was explaining how an excess of servicemen were bleeding the national coffers dry.
"Should be horsewhipped." He snarled, not making it too clear as to whether he was referring to the politician or the reporter.
"Oh show some gratitude, you've got star billing. Anyway, what's all this 'renegade Muslim' bollocks. I didn't think you had any religion; a freewheeling pagan like me."
"Didn't feel the need to carry it around with me like those prats. Anyhow, lost interest in all that along the way. 'Sins of the fathers' I suppose."
"What father? I thought you were an orphan. You were in foster homes when we were at school."
"Not always an orphan no. How do you think I got born then numb-nuts, Immaculate Conception? My mother died while I was a toddler. My father, well he dumped me on relatives here in town who didn't really want me under their roof. I was a source of great shame to the family the moment I was born."
Chris sensed the other's spiralling melancholy, knew the joking was over. Matters previously untold or asked for were about to surface.
"Well you've started me old son, may as well run the whole story by me."
Sid closed his eyes in a moment of repose, opened them, drained his drink. "Pass that bottle over here then. I'll need it I think. Ta'."
As if performing a holy tea ritual, he carefully filled the chipped cup on the coffee table to its very rim then bent forward to suck up the top half inch. His eyes avoided Chris, diverting back to the TV screen, only now oblivious to what was there.
"My mother was brought from Pakistan to this country, Luton actually, as a child in the sixties. She was a bit strong willed by nature, and exposure to the infidel culture developed that into an outright rebellious streak. This was totally against the natural inclinations of the large Muslim community in the midlands that resisted any real integration. Many of them haven't learn
t the language during thirty years and more living here.
"Women are not expected to speak up for themselves or demand anything in life other than total subservience to their men. She got herself knocked up when she was only sixteen."
"Whoops, that was unfortunate."
"Unfortunate? In a Muslim household you can't even begin to know how fucking unfortunate that is. My grandparents tried to face it out, this dishonour she had brought upon them before their neighbours.
"It was a year before they got her to say who the father was. A young hot-head radical Islamist fresh from the old country causing unrest amongst the younger first generation British Asians born here. They tracked him down to here in Holtingham, not a million miles away as the stork flies, so they packed my mother and me off to him to deal with. Out of sight and narrow minds."
"But you didn't live happily ever after?"
"You got that right. 'Father' was on a mission for Mohammed. He had no interest in playing happy families, we were a burden on his agenda. As a toddler I regularly got dragged down to the bloody mosque back in Luton, there wasn't one here then, made to get down on my knees facing Mecca and plead for forgiveness from Allah."
"Forgiveness?"
"Of course. I was an illegitimate, a bastard child in the eyes of Mohammed. My mother, well she was nothing more than a common whore in my father's eyes."
"Hang on, he was the …"
"Sucks doesn't it White Boy? Welcome to the whacky world of Islamic morals my friend."
"What happened to your mother Sid, get ill did she?"
"The sickness wasn't in her. Father couldn't abide the shame we brought upon him any longer. He was going up in the world, didn't need that kind of baggage as a budding holy man, so decided to get shot of us.
"With her parents' agreement, if not relief, he had her sent back to her own village in the Punjab and stuck me in a foster home here."
"Why weren't you sent away with her?"
A crushing weight appeared to land on Sydique Sahni's shoulders, pressing him down into a squashed coiled position, head lowered, eyes lower.
"She had faced a secret Sharia court back in Luton, found guilty under the Law of God. Her 'crime' came under the Tazir category, a convenient one fits all size." He held aloft his cup, studying the cracks before taking a deep swallow of the whisky. "Lost count of the number of Sharia laws I have broken.