The Leader

by Guy Walters

  She looked around the group one last time. They were all breathing heavily, and not just because of the cycling. She hadn’t known these men – were they really men? They looked so young – for very long, and yet she felt closer to them than she ever had to Alan. The excitement of shared risk was a powerful thing, she thought, so powerful that she could barely control her shaking legs as they pedalled off. Within ten minutes she would know what was going to happen to her. What, she asked herself, would the Lucy from ten minutes in the future make of the Lucy of now?

  They approached the brightly lit police station from the rear. A large red-brick Victorian edifice, it stood out from the slum housing that encroached on it. Its very cleanness and brightness suggested an ill-deserved moral superiority, an arrogance that would shortly be paid for. Normally this side of the building was unguarded, and tonight was no exception. They dismounted, and left their bicycles propped up in a nearby alley. The plan was to split into pairs, each pair taking one side of the building. It would be harder for them to put out two fires, David said, and the occupants would be under the impression that they were surrounded.

  David beckoned Lucy to come with him. Clutching their bombs, they ran silently round to the right-hand side of the building. The lights from the station illuminated the narrow street with a yellow glow, making Lucy feel vulnerable. She could hear voices and gruff male laughter spilling out on to the street from an open window on the first floor, a window David was pointing at. In the winter they would have had no such luck, but tonight the air was warm, and the occupants were confident enough to let the night air cool them down.

  They crouched down on the other side of the road, in the doorway of a vandalised grocers’ shop. Although the window was smashed, Lucy could make out that the shop was called Steinberg & Son, or rather, used to be called Steinberg & Son, as it was clearly no longer a flourishing business. A Star of David had been daubed on the door, and beneath it the crudely painted words ‘No more Yid fruit!’ All this had happened right next to a police station, she thought – well, they had it coming for turning a blind eye.

  With trembling hands, David and Lucy unwrapped their bottles and placed them gently on the ground: Lucy had thought that getting off all eight was ambitious, but David had reassured her by confidently stating that it would take the police at least two minutes to react, by which time they would already be pedalling away.

  ‘Ready?’ whispered David.

  Lucy nodded back and retrieved the matches from her pocket. Her hands were shaking so hard, she could barely strike the first one, but on the third attempt it flared into life. As she brought the small flame towards the first bottle, she knew that as soon as she lit that cloth, there would be no going back – her life would be spent constantly on the run. She had wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps, but as the cloth caught light, she knew that her political activity would have to be more direct and confrontational than she could possibly have imagined.

  David picked up the flaming bottle and ran across the road to the police station. Lucy was mesmerised as she watched the arc of the petrol bomb’s trajectory. It sailed through the air like a firework and then disappeared through the open window.

  For a second, nothing.

  Then came the strangely gentle whoosh of bright ignition, followed by a silence. The flames punched out the window, and in their glow she could see that David was running back towards her.

  ‘Where’s the next one?’ he said urgently.

  It was Lucy’s job to keep them coming, but, distracted by the first bomb, she had neglected to light a second.

  ‘Come on, come on, for fuck’s sake!’

  Lucy rapidly lit the second bottle, which David snatched from her. As he lobbed it through the window, she was lighting the third. By now she could hear shouts coming from the building, along with a loud scream, the sound of a man in agony. It was a horrific sound, one she wanted to blot out.

  She watched as David sent the next two bottles through the window. He attempted to throw the fifth through a closed window on the first floor, but it only smashed against it in a cloud of oily flame. However, the sixth bottle successfully broke through, causing another bright whoosh. A bell started ringing within the station and the shouts were getting more intense. It would not take long for the police to emerge, she thought; surely it would only be a matter of seconds.

  David took the seventh bottle.

  ‘You do the last one!’ he shouted.

  Lucy paused. Could she? And then a voice from within stirred her up. Yes, you can, dammit, you bloody well can. She lit the final bottle and ran as if in a trance towards the building. With all her might, she threw the bottle towards the second window, and watched as it disappeared into the blazing room.

  ‘Let’s go!’

  Lucy found herself starting to run. She stumbled over the cobbles, slipped on some effluence, but somehow managed to keep up with David. When they reached the back of the police station, they looked up the other side of the building to see Danny and Benny running towards them. It looked as if they too had been successful, for flames were licking out of a ground-floor window.

  Benny was laughing. It was a hysterical laugh, a laugh that annoyed her. There was nothing funny about what they were doing. This wasn’t a prank or some schoolboy lark – this was about showing the fascists that they were opposed, that they were hated. Lucy was not to know that Benny’s laugh was born out of nervousness.

  They heard the first whistles as they mounted their bicycles.

  ‘Stop!’ came a shout from somewhere behind them.

  For one irrational moment Lucy was tempted to obey. It was the sound of authority that was tugging her back, appealing to the small part of her that revolted against what she was doing. How easy to stop and face your fate, how tempting just to do as you were told. But she had no choice, and she forced her legs to pedal harder and faster.

  ‘Stop!’ yelled another voice. ‘Or we’ll shoot!’

  She didn’t believe it until she felt a high-pitched whizzing puncturing the air above her head. What was that? It couldn’t be a bullet, surely not, but then she heard the sound of a gun firing. How funny – she had heard the bullet before the shot . . . and then another whizzing, and still another. This wasn’t real, this was just play-acting. Neither did it look real when David, who was cycling just ahead of her, was knocked off his bicycle by an invisible blow. She overtook him and glanced back, noticing that his face looked contorted, pained. Once again she nearly stopped, but she knew there was no point. He’s dead, a voice told her, David is dead.

  She didn’t remember the rest of the ride. She was on automatic, her feet pedalling hard, her mind stuck on the image of David. In a way, she hoped that he had died, that he would be spared the inevitable torture that would ensue if he had been taken alive. She could just imagine the bastards allowing him to recover at the London Hospital before going to work on him. Presumably it wasn’t so much fun torturing someone who was already in pain. No, she hoped he was dead. Her own ruthlessness surprised her, took her aback. What was doing that to her? Was it the regime, or was it something within her, something she knew to be a defence mechanism?

  When the three of them arrived back at the lock-up, they hugged each other through their tears. There were a few ‘if onlys’, but Lucy didn’t add to them and stayed silent. Her mind was crowded with those she had lost – Dad, Alan, and now David. She tried to stop herself thinking about what Alan was going through, and told herself that what she was imagining was far worse than the reality. And then another voice: Don’t delude yourself, Lucy. This was the new voice, the voice that wanted David dead, the voice that also wanted Alan to have died. It was both strong and merciful, this voice, its strength lying in the cruel realisation that the only mercy to be found these days was in death. It was this voice that started speaking now.

  ‘David knew the price. He knew that he might get himself killed. He wouldn’t have thought it unfair that they’d shot him.’


  ‘What are you saying?’ asked an incredulous Benny.

  ‘That’s what you get if you throw petrol bombs into police stations.’

  ‘Hang on!’ said Danny, his voice high-pitched. ‘Are you saying that we shouldn’t have done it? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? Come on – spit it out.’

  Lucy was shaking her head.

  ‘I’m not saying that at all, Danny.’

  Danny snorted.

  ‘Please!’ said Lucy. ‘Hear me out! I’m saying the very opposite. What David saw as being unfair is that we have to do it – that we haven’t a choice. It’s unfair that instead of getting on with our lives we’ve had to become . . . to become terrorists. That’s what’s unfair, Danny. It’s not about a policeman shooting you for setting light to his petrol station; it’s about why that situation has to exist.’

  Danny and Benny stayed silent.

  ‘I’m sorry if I sound callous,’ said Lucy, ‘but I promise you I’m not. David was fighting to win. It would be the easiest thing in the world for us to curl up now that he has gone, but where’s the point in that? I say that we should go out tomorrow night and do another.’

  The two men looked at her.

  ‘What?’ asked Benny.

  ‘You heard me,’ said Lucy.

  ‘You’re just like your father,’ said Danny. ‘A Craven through and through.’

  Chapter Five

  Washing Hands

  AFTER HE HAD been driving for a couple of minutes, Armstrong realised he had left the roadmap in the Austin 7. He could remember the direct route, but he knew that would soon be blocked. He needed to find some back roads, and for those he would certainly need a map. Perhaps there was one in this car. Without lifting his foot from the accelerator, he looked round the interior of the Vauxhall. On the back seat he noticed a briefcase – he would investigate that later. Reaching down with his left hand, he opened the glove compartment and scrabbled around its contents. A tube of Rolos and a packet of Senior Service cigarettes fell out. He felt something smooth and cylindrical – a torch. After rounding a sharp bend, he once more rummaged inside and pulled out a pair of sturdy black handcuffs. Useful, but not as useful as a map. He would just have to follow his nose, and hug the coast.

  He reached the outskirts of Carlisle just before lunchtime. He had successfully avoided Dumfries and Gretna, and had crossed the border into England just south of Milltown. Reckoning that there would certainly be more roadblocks, he abandoned the Vauxhall just off a wooded lane that ran down to the River Eden. He took the briefcase and handcuffs with him, although the Smith & Wesson was dispatched into the river’s dark waters. Without ammunition the revolver was not only useless, but was also an unnecessary indicator of his guilt. God knew what was in the briefcase – he would break it open when he got on the train.

  As he started walking briskly into the town, something was nagging him, something that his subconscious was insisting he should listen to, be aware of. And then his heart started thumping, as if he was waking from a nightmare. The Austin 7! The police would soon find out that it belonged to Richard. He felt almost sick with guilt, anger and helplessness. Fool, Armstrong, you fool! He should have carried on in the Austin instead of greedily taking the Vauxhall. What was going to happen to Richard and his family? What had already happened?

  He had to call him, and call him immediately. He looked at his watch: it had just gone noon, over two and a half hours since the shooting at the roadblock. Would the police have had time to trace the owner of the Austin? Almost certainly, but that didn’t mean that Richard had already been arrested.

  Armstrong walked fast, and then broke into a half run. He knew that if someone spotted him it would look suspicious, but that was too bad. Half a mile ahead were some factories, and cutting through them he could see the raised railway line. He would follow the line into town, where he would surely find a phone box. He looked at his watch again – ten past twelve – and began to run even faster, the contents of the briefcase rattling and knocking against the leather interior.

  He crossed the river by a small footbridge next to a pockmarked cricket pitch. He felt the eyes of a few dog-walkers boring into him, but better their gazes than those of policemen. Passing some tennis courts and a bowling green, Armstrong ran up a small road until he reached a busy street. He paused, catching his breath, his eyes desperately hunting for a bright red phone box.

  The street was wide, the sandstone buildings tall and elegant. The pavements were bustling, and the passers-by scarcely gave him a look. Armstrong walked calmly, following his nose towards the centre of town. As he passed a chemist’s shop, a display made his head turn, stopping him in his tracks.

  Beauty products would never normally have held Armstrong’s attention, but these were different. The display consisted of smart boxes of powders, lipsticks, creams and other such products whose functions Armstrong found largely mysterious. Each box bore a stylish black-and-white portrait of an attractive young woman, a face that Armstrong instantly recognised. It was that of Diana Mosley, the Leader’s wife no less, and the brand was simply called ‘Diana’, with the legend, ‘For Leading Ladies’. It was not just odious, thought Armstrong, but farcical. He had never imagined that the fascist cult of personality would make its way into the window of a high-street chemist.

  But he had no time to ponder. He continued to walk briskly, and was soon rewarded with a phone box, one of the new concrete ones that people were calling ‘vermilion giants’. Armstrong was surprised to find that it hadn’t been painted black, but that would surely come. Just as he was about to wrench open the door, he realised that the box was occupied. Damn. Once more he looked at his watch – it was now twenty-five past. Come on, he urged the occupant, looking around to see if there were any other phone boxes. There weren’t. He would have to wait.

  Armstrong’s luck was in. He could hear the caller saying goodbye and replacing the receiver, then the door was pushed violently open, and out stepped a man of about Armstrong’s height dressed in a Blackshirt uniform. The two men’s eyes met briefly, Armstrong doing his best not to look startled. The Blackshirt’s eyes narrowed, causing a wave of dread to crash over Armstrong. Had he been recognised, or was the man only staring back because Armstrong was staring at him?

  ‘Afternoon.’ Armstrong nodded, and then pulled on the phone box’s heavy door.

  ‘Afternoon,’ the Blackshirt replied, flicking his right forearm in the air in a fascist half-salute.

  Armstrong returned the salute, but decided to go one better.

  ‘The Leader,’ he said, wondering whether he wasn’t over-egging it.

  The Blackshirt smiled, evidently believing he had met a fellow traveller.

  ‘The Leader indeed,’ he beamed back, and then turned on his heel with military briskness.

  Armstrong stepped into the phone box and exhaled. He looked hard at himself in the small mirror, chastising himself for being so uneasy, so on edge. He had to be tough, had to listen to the inner voice that insisted he remain in control. It was the same voice that had carried him through the war, the same voice that had joined forces with Mary to help him recuperate.

  He carefully placed the briefcase on the floor and turned to the phone. He lifted the receiver and pressed the button marked ‘A’. After a few seconds a crisp female voice came on the line.

  ‘Operator.’

  ‘Hello, I’d like to place a call through to Port Logan 231.’

  ‘Port Logan 231?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘One moment.’

  The line went dead and stayed that way for at least half a minute. For Armstrong it was an age.

  ‘Caller?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That’ll be sixpence for the first minute.’

  Armstrong rooted through some change in his pocket and inserted a sixpence into the slot.

  ‘Hold on, please.’

  After another age, he eventually heard a ringing tone. The phone was ans
wered after about a dozen rings.

  ‘Hello?’

  The voice was Scottish, and therefore emphatically not Richard’s.

  ‘Is Captain Collyer there?’ Armstrong asked.

  ‘Who is this, please?’

  ‘I’m an old friend of his.’

  There was a hateful pause.

  ‘I’m afraid Captain Collyer is not available right now. Who is this, please?’

  ‘An old friend. How about his wife?’

  ‘I cannot help you until you tell me who you are.’

  Armstrong put the phone down gently, hearing one last ‘Hello?’ before the receiver was fully replaced. He’d heard all he needed to know. He just hoped Richard had had the wit to say the car had been stolen. He knew the Collyers would be loyal to him, because that was the type of people they were. If ever he needed another reason to succeed, then this was it. Temporarily lost in thought, Armstrong left the phone box, and started wandering down the street. He only regained his presence of mind when he saw the Blackshirt walking about twenty feet ahead of him. Here was an opportunity, thought Armstrong, an opportunity that was not to be dismissed. He found himself repeatedly flexing his free hand into a fist.

  He followed the Blackshirt down the continuous thoroughfare that was Scottish Street and English Street, all the time taking in the changes that a few months of fascist rule had made. Not just the Diana Mosley beauty products, but the lightning flash rings in Carr’s the jeweller, the posters of Mosley pinned up in many shop windows, the Party uniforms for sale in Howard & Sons bespoke tailors, the presence of only two newspapers – Action and The Blackshirt – in newsagents’ shops. He even passed a poster advertising a Blackshirt Summer Camp, promising ‘First Quality Food’, an ‘Ideal Site’ and ‘Free Transport’. The town’s atmosphere felt strange – it was a typical British county town, and yet it wasn’t. The architecture, the faces, the road signs, the cars – all were British through and through, and yet the atmosphere was dark, alien. Le soleil noir. Even the light felt black, Armstrong thought