The Man in the Street

by Martin Howe

  “You’re coming with me.”

  He grabbed his arms. There was no resistance, which was a surprise, just physical compliance and a disconcerting air of composure that undercut Tony’s own feigned aggression.

  “No need to raise your voice, I’m not deaf. Not like you must be. How can you listen to this rubbish, you must be my age. Hey, watch what you are doing will you.”

  The reasonable words modestly delivered were disquieting and Tony was aware that his response was banal and ineffective.

  “Shut up, just shut up.”

  It was a game, a farcical pretence, with both sides playing their part. There was no fire to their captives’ protestations, no vigour to their struggling, as they were manhandled down the steps into the maze of corridors below the auditorium. Around them the chanting grew louder, the abuse more explicit.

  “Going to be a busy night for you, I think”, the young man said grimly, “We’re not going to let Mosley have his say, however many of us you throw out.”

  The underground passageway was dimly lit, the damp painted brickwork glistening in a pallid green light, the air stale and fetid. It was crowded. Writhing figures indistinct in the gloom threatened and imparted violence, their slow motion grappling a ballet of flailing limbs, slamming bodies and butting heads. Swirling around Tony the madness of the action, each pairing a tableau of impetuous force and rash judgement. Eric was in among them, his tensed form hunched over a cowering body, bunched fists lashing, the dull thumps of angry contact resonating in the narrow space and underscoring the shrill cries of fury and pain.

  “Look I’ve had enough of you, keep quiet or else.”

  Eric had grasped his victim by both arms, a brown tweed jacket pulled back over his head.

  “Take them down there. We’ll chuck them out by the back exit on Beaconsfield Terrace. Quieter that way.”

  Up ahead a Blackshirt was struggling with a prone demonstrator who was refusing to get up off the ground.

  “Leave me alone, you have no right”, he screamed as he was dragged slowly towards the exit doors. Tony could see an upended leather holdall and black beret lying on the dusty concrete floor. All around struggling figures hove in and out of view, a cast of characters peripheral to, but critical for, the central drama.

  “Time to teach you a lesson in politics, you little bastard.”

  Eric had thrust the young Communist up against the brick wall of the tunnel. Holding him by the lapels of his jacket he hit him hard once, twice in the stomach. The man collapsed onto his knees with a feeble gurgling cry. Eric struck him again with his fist on the side of his head. Incensed, Tony’s prisoner broke free and ran towards Eric.

  “You animals, you fucking animals”, he cried.

  Without thinking Tony followed, lunging forward to grab an arm, the momentum swinging the man forcefully into the wall. There was a sickening thud and his body lost resilience, sliding slowly to the floor. Blood frothed from his broken nose and open mouth, gobbets of pink-tinged mucus spraying outwards in stuttering bursts.

  “Look out, Tony!”

  He whirled round. A demonstrator was struggling to reach him, but couldn’t free himself from his assailant. He was held by one arm, the other flailing wildly.

  “Watch out.”

  Tony tried to push him away but he kept coming forward.

  “I can’t hold him much longer, do something for Christ’s sake.”

  Tony lashed out hitting him in the mouth. The pain in his hand was excruciating as splintering teeth lacerated his knuckles. Angry he punched repeatedly until the man collapsed at his feet. The exhilaration was intense. Looking down at the prostrate body, he noticed a beard, shot through with grey. He had beaten an old man.

  “He’ll be fine, you can hear him groaning, he’ll just have a sore head for a few days that’s all. Come on, let’s throw this lot out and get back in there for some more.”

  One of the stewards had drawn a switchblade.

  “I want to deal with these two first, make sure they don’t think of returning any time soon.”

  The struggle ceased, a stillness prevailed as all in the vicinity focused on the weapon being waved threateningly in the air. A protestor, muttered, “Please, no.”

  The Blackshirt smiled, his arm flicking deftly forward, the knife cutting cleanly through the man’s braces. His loose baggy corduroy trousers slumped to his knees.

  “That should slow you down,” he sneered as he leaned over and cut through the thick black leather belt of the man standing next to him.

  “Nobody likes showing their bare arse.”

  He turned and faced a man who was crouching against the wall.

  “Stand up you Jew lover.”

  The man, in his late forties with receding hair, rose slowly to his feet. His face was deathly pale as he stared defiantly at the steward. He spat into his grinning mouth. The Blackshirt recoiled in horror, gagging as he frantically wiped his lips with his hand.

  “Hold the bastard.”

  Coughing he slowly drew his blade across the man’s cheek, tracing a fine vermilion line strung with glistening ruby-red beads.

  When Tony returned enlivened to the auditorium the ambience was electric, the tumult overpowering. The clamour of protest reverberated throughout the hall and the volume of the public address system had been turned up in an attempt to drown out the chanting. The din threatened to overwhelm Mosley’s speech, diminishing the effect of his words, distorting their meaning and diverting attention from his performance on stage.

  “…we have in England low wages, long hours, rotten houses, unemployment, and poverty, all absolutely unnecessary!”

  Mosley thumped the rostrum with his right hand and paused, aware he was losing his audience.

  “With the vast Imperial resources which are the heritage of this country, in this age when scientific progress and technical advance has vastly increased production, the problems of poverty and want can easily be solved by a government empowered by the people to carry out their will. While democratic governments are giving away the empire which our fathers won…”

  The chanting continued.

  “Down with Fascism, Down with Mosley, Down with Fascism, Down with Mosley.”

  In frustration, Mosley halted his speech and berated the hecklers, inciting further jeering and shouting. The outnumbered stewards targeted those who were out of their seats and forcefully escorted them from the building. But the protests continued in a co-ordinated manner – flaring up in disparate banks of seating as other areas were cleared of protestors – and members of the audience began to leave fearing further violence. Tony heard whispers that Blackshirts were being roughed up and suffering serious injuries. His own squad had been obstructed and abused by audience members sitting near a protester they had been trying to remove. The stewards were on edge and tempers were fraying.

  “…it is the force which is served by the Conservative Party, the Liberal Party, and the Socialist party alike, the force that has dominated Britain ever since the War, and which ruins the economy of many parts of this country – the force of International Jewish finance.”

  There was uproar across the hall, the chanting and taunting redoubled. A tin can lobbed from the stalls bounced across the stage.

  “Ah, I thought they wouldn’t like to hear their master’s name. The Labour party squeals about capital doing it. It is those who have accumulated great holdings in financial houses who sit in London, not developing British industry but exploiting foreign industry, not lending money to assist British industry and re-equip our mills but going where they can get quicker returns and profits, going into the Orient, where there is a great virgin field of labour un-employment, where women work in the foul slums of Bombay and Madras, for one purpose and one purpose alone – that Lancashire may be destroyed in order that the City of London may wax fatter and fatter.” />
  Mosley was shouting.

  “This is bad,” thought Tony as he leaned against a gold, green and red painted iron pillar, catching his breath, “there are too many of them.” His arms ached, his hands were sore and his shins badly bruised. He was thirsty.

  Suddenly there was shouting from high above him and yellow leaflets began fluttering down out of the gloom like confetti. People looked up as the papers began drifting in to land amongst them. A few stood up, concerned, and called to the stewards. The roof void was in darkness, but the shadowy iron ribs of the arched glass ceiling could be traced against the red-tinged, star-flecked sky. There was no sign of demonstrators.

  “…the Empire belongs to you, the People of Britain! Thousands of Englishmen won this great Empire, which has been the glory of the world; their sacrifice and heroism…”

  “Liar, liar, Mosley a liar, liar, liar, Mosley is a liar.”

  Mosley faltered and glanced up, then turned and looked questioningly at the stewards standing on the side of the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for this latest interruption. It appears some of our critics have climbed up into the roof in an attempt to prevent me from speaking. Now this is taking things to an extreme. I appeal to them to come down peacefully, there will be no trouble.”

  “Death to Mosley, death to Fascism. Make us Mosley, come and get us, send up your bully-boys, if you dare. Death to Mosley, death to Fascism.”

  There was scattered applause and shouting and screaming broke out again across the hall. Mosley flung his arms wide in an appeal to the audience.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is what we have to deal with. I assure you we will sort this out immediately, there is no cause for concern. Stewards please apprehend those people. There must be no violence.”

  He paused and consulted his notes on the rostrum.

  “Yes, the Empire, the British Empire it belongs to you, the people…”

  A searchlight that had been fixing Mosley on the stage was directed up into the roof girders, its beam obscuring all not caught in its searching yellow eye. It was a dazzling display as the spot traversed the curved glass roof, shards of light reflecting back on to the floor of the hall. Many in the audience stared upwards, watching the luminous show, ignoring the speaker on the stage. Captured fleetingly in the skittering glare they would look away, hands raised, shielding their eyes. All the while the flyers drifted down out of the darkness, efflorescing briefly in a sweep of the beam, diminishing into the gloom as it passed. People grabbed for the them as they emerged floating within reach, standing on the seats, leaping into the air. The searchlight was unwieldy and the operator struggled to control it. Gradually the beam’s erratic course slowed and it began to systematically quarter the roof: illuminating grey painted iron girders, each bolt clearly defined; the diffuse glare from the glass panels; the narrow iron cross-ribs; girder, glass, rib, girder, glass, one followed another. The audience mesmerized by the spectacle, waited. Mosley had stopped speaking and was looking up into the roof space. The hubbub died away. The protesters had stopped chanting and nobody stirred, there was barely a rustle of people getting to their feet, making their excuses, heading for the exits, people with coats over their arms stood in the gangways and at the doors, peering into the air. The spotlight began its second sweep, aided by the blanched illumination from the partial moon that had just risen over the lower rim of the glass arch and was casting a silvery patina over the girders.

  “Where are they?” muttered Eric as he came up behind Tony, “I want people up there as soon as we spot them, this is beyond a joke. The whole bloody meeting’s at a standstill.”

  He tapped Tony on the shoulder and nodded towards the centre of the hall.

  “They must be somewhere near here if you look where most of those handbills are coming down. God, I don’t know what that idiot on the spotlight is playing at. It shouldn’t be too hard, should it? After all they’re not going anywhere. You stay here and keep an eye out. I don’t want the climbers getting away. Be careful though, they’ll certainly have friends on the ground.”

  He moved off towards the searchlight. There was a gasp. People cried out, pointing.

  “There they are; on that girder; back a bit; you’ve gone past; I only saw one man; how many are there? They’ve missed them.”

  The beam shimmered to a halt – catching a red and gold shield, the coat of arms of the Iron-masters in its ghostly tremulous light – dimmed slightly and then began to retrace its passage. A dazzling burst and there they were, two men, spotted in the blaze, seated on either side of the central support of the arched roof on one of the main iron girders that made up the ribs of the building. They were shielding their eyes with one hand, holding on with the other and energetically swinging their dangling legs. As the light settled on them they waved then shoved their remaining piles of leaflets into space, sending them showering down on the upturned faces. Around the hall pockets of supporters clapped, cheered and waved coats over their heads. Whoops of triumph came from the front of the auditorium, where two men and a woman were attempting to climb up onto the stage. They were dragged back by stewards.

  “Gentlemen, this is a reckless escapade. I demand that you come down. You are endangering yourselves and members of the audience. Enough is enough.”

  As Tony’s eyes grew accustomed to the glare, he realized that the men were sitting on a girder supported by the pillar he was leaning against. Without thinking, he leapt up and grasped an overhanging ledge of metal that protruded just above his head, kicked his legs and hauled himself up. The iron collar, which was wide enough for him to sit on, formed part of the building’s anchoring foundations, acting as a brace, securing the two large beams which formed the outer edges of the roof truss and which had bolted onto them a framework of lesser struts. This open mesh-like structure allowed for a two-foot wide access space through its centre.

  “This should be easy to climb. That lot up there aren’t as daredevil as they look,” he thought.

  The metal bridge arched up above him into the gloom. Getting tentatively to his feet, he reached up and sought out a handhold. He sneezed. There was dust everywhere, coating surfaces in a furry accretion that felt unpleasantly greasy. He wiped his fingers then his palm on his trousers.

  “I must be careful.”

  On stage Mosley was trying to re-engage the crowd and divert attention from the drama unfolding above their heads.

  “…you the pioneers of the British Revolution shall be remembered and honoured wherever English men and women are gathered together. In days to come your children shall call down the blessings of Heaven upon your heads because you had the courage in these days of our struggle to stand up with us.”

  Tony began his ascent unseen, his climb shrouded in shadow. He gained height rapidly, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his hands as they moved purposefully upwards from bolt to bolt. Stopping to catch his breath and clear his throat, he found he could see more clearly in the reflected light. The iron beam was leveling out, which meant he must be getting close to the protestors. He glanced over the edge of the girder.

  “Oh no…no.”

  Shutting his eyes, he clutched the metal and rested his head on his forearm, gasping in lungfuls of dusty air.

  “It’s too high, what am I doing, it’s too high.”

  Cramp seared the muscles in his calves and he was conscious of a sharp pain in his knuckles. He feared he was unable to move.

  “…that is what the Labour Party was saying this morning. Everything was perfect till a man like Mosley came down and stirred up trouble. Everything was peaceful and happy until the wicked Blackshirts came. You were all living in paradise until then. Why, today they are more conservative than the conservatives…”

  Tony could only ascend, one deliberate handhold after another, his feet carefully placed. The dread of failure was a spur. He crawled slowly into t
he full glare of the spotlight and was a yard from his quarry, before he was noticed. The two men had been concentrating on events below and were taken by surprise.

  “Stone me Jack, there’s one of them up here.”

  Jack peered round the central pier.

  “So there is. Mind you he looks like a scared rabbit, he’s got his eyes closed.”

  “Anybody coming up your side?”

  “No, can’t see anyone. Hang on I think there’s something. Yes, we’re cornered mate.”

  “What happens now?”

  “Dunno, let’s wait and see what they have in mind.”

  Tony opened his eyes. There was an iron-shod boot sole, he could clearly make out the pattern of the leather stitching, and noticed the frayed end of one of the laces. The man was wearing brown corduroy trousers with muddy turn-ups and was staring at him.

  “Not got a head for heights then? Me, I was in the navy, tall ships.”

  Tony closed his eyes.

  “They sent you to bring us down, did they? How you gonna do that? Fly?”

  The two men smiled.

  Down below people at the back of the hall had caught sight of Tony – he was hidden from those directly underneath him – and were calling out.

  “… the forces of political corruption and all the hatred of the old world…”

  Mosley hesitated and looked up.

  “Ah, I see my stewards have reached those perched in their aerie high above us. I think this has now gone far enough. Come down and there will be no trouble. I do not want any fighting. This is a dangerous situation, people could get hurt. My stewards will not harm you, but will assist in helping you down.”

  “More the other way round I should think. Come on sonny, you heard your master, give us a hand.”

  He reached towards Tony, holding out a grimy khaki military-issue canvas knapsack.

  “Here, you can carry my bag for me.”

  Tony shook his head. His hands tightly gripping one of the cross ribs. The man looked away.