by Max Schaefer
I couldn’t find Philip. Outside I called Sarah and told her I was coming over. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, but I just said, ‘I’ll see you soon.’
The tube had long stopped running: I took the first night bus across the river, sitting behind two boys who began, the moment we left the station, to kiss. They looked like a photograph, their clothes cheaper and more stylish than I would dare, and I imagined that I could catch, where I sat, the evanescent limit of their melded breath. It tasted of their evening just gone — lager, fags, pie and chips: harsh and warm like a fart.
Bressenden Place
Steve says: ‘It’s all fucking going to pieces.’
‘Come on Steve mate,’ says Dave quietly, into his pint.
‘Nutty Fairies. Fuck’s sake.’
Tony waves at the barman. ‘Do you want another?’
‘Yeah go on. Look at this mess though. It’s a joke.’
‘Dave?’
Dave lifts his glass, still half full. ‘No I’m all right cheers.’
‘Can’t even fucking drink properly any more,’ says Steve. ‘That’s your first fucking problem.’
‘Two more pints please mate.’
‘I mean what the fuck is going on out there?’
It is a fair question. Among the troops in the Stag an easy truce operates, but in the street outside a dumb-show of factionalism is being staged by their respective leaders, who stand clutching their flags in little clumps, with occasional waved gestures or messengers scuttling between them: these, and the half-arsed, smirking arbitration of the police.
‘It was bad enough last year. Two National Fronts: taking the fucking piss. But last time we marched with you lot and now we’re with the others. How fucking stupid do you want us to look?’
It is Sunday, 8 November 1987.
Through the window, they watch Nick Griffin confer with Pat Harrington. Griffin keeps checking his watch. He has grown, Tony notices, a moustache. The effect is strange, but far less than that of Dave’s neat schoolboy hair. And his tie.
(‘When did you grow that then?’ Tony asked when they saw each other.
‘Couple of months now.’
‘You trying to go respectable?’
‘If you really want to change society your haircut’s probably not the single most important thing,’ Dave said equitably. ‘Is it?’
‘Nice suit and all.’
‘It’s Remembrance Sunday. We’re meant to be paying respect.’)
Outside it is beginning to drizzle. Two policemen are talking to the leaders of Dave’s party: Griffin; the Front’s new chairman, Derek Holland, with ugly glasses and a pale, girlish scarf, holding a wreath; and Harrington in his long black trench coat, who dangles a megaphone at his waist, listens to the police, nods. Steve says: ‘I see his arm mended.’
‘What Herr Flick?’ Tony says.
‘Yeah. There’s a glorious national revolutionary for you. He’s going to fucking bottle it if some copper even pulls a face at him.’
Dave smiles. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Look at him. “Yes officer can I clean out your lovely arse-hole with my tongue please officer.” Thieving little prick.’
‘It doesn’t hurt to look reasonable,’ says Dave.
At a table in a corner of the pub a man is sitting alone with a pint of bitter. He must be forty or fifty, clean-shaven and with neat black hair, eyes big like a fish’s behind gold-framed spectacles, a dour flat mouth and delicate, pointy ears. He wears a long, dark raincoat that needs a clean; an expensive-looking umbrella with a carved wooden handle is propped up next to him. Every time Tony has glanced in his direction, the man has been looking straight at him. Now it happens again and Tony looks aggressively back, but the man seems quite unfazed and regards him levelly, even raises his glass and sips. Tony would swear he’s seen him around before. You’d think Special Branch or something, except they don’t dress like that and with all the cops here what would be the point?
‘Here.’ Dave, who has been digging in his pocket, produces a creased leaflet from which he reads: ‘“Any attempt by the police to interfere with our traditional rights will be rejected. The non-political parade, the short religious service at the Cenotaph, and the political rally at the end of the activity will all go ahead regardless of any possible state bans, police harassment or violent attacks by communist thugs.”’
‘Believe it when I see it,’ says Steve. ‘Fucking student politics.’
‘Come with us then,’ Dave tells him. ‘Why not?’
Tony says: ‘They wouldn’t have us mate. Sully your image and that. Anyway we’re independent now aren’t we.’
‘I don’t know who “we” is any more to be honest Tony. What are you these days, BM again is it? BNP?’
‘“We” is Blood & Honour.’
‘Oh B and H. I thought that was a record club. Or Benson & Hedges. All these Bs I get confused. BHS. B. B. King. Be-bop-a-loo-bop.’
‘I’ll tell you what B stands for,’ says Steve. ‘British.’
Dave smiles: ‘Thought it stood for Blood.’
‘British Movement. British National Party. British. Ring a bell does it?’
‘What National Party like National Front?’
‘B not P.’ The last letter is spat. ‘Right? BM, not PL fucking O. How much did your dues go up last year? Ten times?’
‘Something like that. Got to keep out the timewasters haven’t we.’
‘And did that go to Palestine too or was it just the Skrewdriver money?’
‘You got a problem with supporting Palestine?’
‘Oh I’m sorry. I thought you was a nationalist.’
‘Who’s fighting the Zionists Steve?’
‘The Zio-whats? You know mate I still remember you fighting the Yids.’
‘Crapped my nappies once too. You grow up don’t you.’
‘And the niggers. Remember them? Can you even say it now? Say “nigger”.’
‘Come on Steve.’
‘Say it. Or have you been brainwashed? Go on. Nig-nig-nig—’
‘Nigger. Woo, scary. Nigger wog coon Paki kike. That helping is it?’
‘There you go. I knew you had it in you.’
‘I can say sieg heil too if it makes you happy.’
‘How about towel-head?’
‘Sieg heil. Deutschland uber alles. Ten pints of cider and a bag of glue.’
‘Towel-head. See? Filthy Arab. Pal-est-inny-un.’
‘Pakis are smelly and Hitler lives in Dagenham. Sieg heil, sieg heil, let’s all go down the pub.’
A general silence follows Dave’s improvised song. Tony sees the man with the umbrella leaning over a table at which sit some of the older and more violent Flag skins. He mutters something to them and they laugh, then walks out, nodding at Tony as he leaves.
Tony asks: ‘Is anyone else hungry?’ He watches through the window as the man walks to an old Morris Minor Traveller with a wooden frame, parked where it probably shouldn’t be. He drives off without looking at Tony again.
‘What time is it?’ says Dave.
‘Gone half-two.’
‘Shouldn’t your lot be setting off?’
‘There’s a Burger King opposite the tube entrance,’ Dave tells Tony. ‘Or a Casey Jones in the station.’
Steve belches. ‘Lesson three. Have a go at this one. Can you say “queer”?’
‘Steve mate give it a fucking rest.’
‘Go on, say “shirt-lifter”. Say “arse-bandit”.’
‘Hang about,’ says Tony, ‘something’s up.’
‘Oh it’s us,’ says Dave. ‘I thought we were going second.’ But outside, the police, quite independently of Griffin and his colleagues, are assembling that group’s supporters into a waiting queue in the north end of the street. Other officers, some distance behind, marshal together the rival Flag group. ‘Right,’ says Tony, and drains his pint; they wander out. It is getting damp and Tony lights another cigarette. Then he nods to Dave — ‘Better get o
n with it’ — and walks with Steve to join the skins among the Flag faction. ‘Miserable isn’t it,’ Tony mutters to placate Steve: he nods and wrinkles his nose in response, which is better than nothing. They wait in silence for some moments, and then Steve says, ‘They’re on to it already, did you see?’
‘On to what mate?’
‘Searchlies. On to Blood & Honour. Big story in the last one, you can’t have missed it. Fucking zine’s barely out yet.’
‘Quick sometimes aren’t they.’
‘Yeah well you have to wonder who their sources are.’ He regards Tony uninterpretably. ‘Course they took the chance to call Craney queer again.’
‘Did they?’ Tony looks back blankly.
‘Won’t leave it alone mate. Must have been trying that one on for years. Ridiculous isn’t it.’
‘Pathetic is what it is.’
‘Can you imagine it, though, Nicky Crane taking it up the arse? Nicky fucking Crane bent over for some old nonce? Oh yeah Daddy yeah fucking give it to me.’
‘Want to destabilize us don’t they.’
‘Oh yeah Daddy that’s it oh don’t fucking stop Daddy. Eh?’ Steve is getting louder and attracting attention. Tony tries a restrained smile, as if to say he gets the joke but it could have been done better, when suddenly the guys around them start trudging forward, and they follow suit, until the front of their queue has met the rear of Dave’s faction ahead. The two clusters of leaders, who stand apart from all this watching, are beginning to frown.
Steve asks someone next to him what’s going on, and he shrugs: ‘We’ve all got to go together.’ The policeman with Harrington must be saying the same thing, because Harrington now looks unhappy and says something back, then lifts his megaphone, steps forward into an emptier space, and announces: ‘We’re being told we have to combine the marches but we in the National Front refuse to march alongside people who are wearing swastikas.’ At this there is laughter even from his own supporters, much louder from the Flag half of the group, who yell insults and start short-lived chants.
Steve shouts: ‘Heil Hitler! You fucking ponce.’
‘Bit of a mess all this,’ says Dave, as he reappears beside them. The Flag leaders are remonstrating with nearby police and gesturing at Griffin and Harrington, to whom a policeman in an officer’s cap talks with his hands in his pockets while Derek Holland stands apart in silence. Tony gives Steve a cigarette; Dave declines. A slow hand-clap builds from the rear of the crowd. Tony wonders if he has time to run to Burger King. It is nearly three-fifteen.
The officer abandons Harrington and talks to his sergeant, who beckons his constables over: they listen, then fan out along the line of waiting marchers, touching arms and speaking quietly. A couple leave the crowd; others argue. When the news reaches Steve he says: ‘You’re fucking joking.’
‘What?’
‘They’re saying it’s rained off.’
Tony says, ‘What the whole thing?’
‘Shit …’ says Dave.
Tony says, ‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘What fucking rain?’
Steve says, ‘Let’s see them try to shift us then.’
More policemen are arriving, trying to move the crowd on. Harrington steps forward with his megaphone. ‘Here we go,’ says Steve.
Harrington is saying: ‘ … members of the official National Front that we reassemble in Sloane Square for a drink at seven-thirty this evening. For now if we could all move away down Vauxhall Bridge Road as per polite instructions. That’s seven-thirty in Sloane Square in Chelsea, thank you.’
He drops the megaphone, stands in place for a minute and raises it again: ‘To be clear, this does not contravene police instructions, it’s not a political meeting but just a social gathering. Hope to see you all there.’ He turns away.
Dave frowns. ‘Is that it?’
The people in front begin to disperse. Most wander off in the direction they have been given.
Dave says: ‘I don’t believe this.’
‘Told you he didn’t have any bollocks,’ says Steve.
‘People have come down from all over for this. Midlands, Yorkshire.’
Behind them, most Flag supporters have not moved. Several skins try to get a chant going. The Flag leaders form a furious circle with the capped officer. One, with a beard and zipped beige coat, grabs a megaphone and strides towards what remains of the crowd, yelling invective against Harrington and his gang of perverts, who have betrayed the movement; his colleague stands awkwardly, clutching the wreath he was meant to lay. Someone else strides along the queue shouting: ‘All ex-servicemen to the front of the march please, we’re getting ready to move. Ex-servicemen first,’ until four policemen frogmarch him off.
At this the remaining crowd gives up. A pair of young skins wanders into the distance, still holding between them a banner that even in this mist is thin enough to read, in mirror writing, from behind:
Steve says, ‘Let’s go back in the pub.’ But the entrance is guarded by policemen who tell them to move along that way now please lads.
‘Right then,’ says Tony. ‘Burger King.’
Later, Steve and Tony are walking through St James’s Park. A small group of old men in uniform stands near the bank of the lake, watching the birds. Steve, who seems cheered to have seen his predictions vindicated, calls out: ‘All right grandad?’ A pair of veterans look at them: shake their heads, turn away.
Steve says, ‘Mate of mine was up in York last year on the BNP march. Says it wasn’t bad. Quite a good ruck before except some of the lads got done. Anyway the ones who aren’t nicked, they’ve all met up in some car park for the march, right, and this old geezer starts giving it all this, what do you call it with Hitler at the rallies, blood-flag stuff.’
‘Blutfahne,’ says Tony, and Steve looks at him.
‘Blood touching blood,’ Tony nods, ‘isn’t it. Power and that.’
‘Well it’s all right at Nuremberg. But not in a fucking car park in fucking York. Anyway this geezer, he gets out what he says is the flag of the original BNP, you know from the ’60s, and he makes everyone else who’s got a flag come forward. And he starts touching them all with his one going, “The flag is the strength giver, the flag is the strength giver.’”
‘Christ.’
‘On the other hand at least they had a fucking march.’
‘Not our biggest success today was it.’
‘It’s not over yet mate.’
In the Store, on Beak Street, Steve’s mob is drinking with men in tops by Armani and Marc O’Polo, jeans from Chipie and Chevignon.
‘Come on,’ Steve says. ‘I’ll introduce you to some Chelsea fans.’
So after a few more pints it’s down Regent Street again and on to Haymarket, walking fast on a new determined wind fuelled by beer and this group, one big gang of booted skins and Headhunters in, well, Timberland moccasins, mainly, or trainers: not much help with kicking but they don’t seem worried which you can understand given their reputation. How many guys in total? Sixty, more? Rounding the corner into Trafalgar Square, singing and chanting: everyone gets out of their way except a few tourists without the language to be frightened who let the mob engulf them, pop out bobbing and startled in its wake. In the pub they heard that unlike theirs, the reds’ parade was allowed to go ahead: 2,000 Asians and white race traitors polluting the Cenotaph, ‘Anti-Fascist Action’. Well now. Round two.
In the far corner of the square, past the column and fountains, a crimson banner marks the picket where it always is, on the pavement by South Africa House, a gaggle of students and dykes shouldering rabid placards. But the interesting bit isn’t the picketers, it’s whether the would-be hard nuts from the red march have kept their promise to protect them. As the mob enters the square everyone’s keeping an eye out. They cross the road and head along the top, not dropping past the balustrade into the sunken central section but staying where you’re not so easily walled in. Tony breathes, bounces a little on his toes, prepping fo
r a fight. One of the Headhunters calls out: Tony looks where he’s pointing and there, on the steps of the church ahead, is gathered the waiting opposition.
‘Come on then you red faggots,’ yells Steve, gesturing at them over the heads of the approaching mob, and Tony echoes, ‘Come on you cunts.’ One of the casuals he was talking to in the pub, Terry or Gary or something, pushes to the front and produces from somewhere a bottle, which he lobs in the reds’ direction. It smashes in the road just shy of them and the space clears efficiently of bystanders. Some reds are yelling back, ‘Fascist scum!’ or whatever; a few stand on the railings making come-hither signs. They’re low-budget versions of the Headhunters, mainly, with the usual few commie skins, like looking in a soiled mirror. It’s hard to tell how many there are and Tony wonders if he should have found a weapon. But once you’re stuck in it comes pretty easy, and he’s one of the minority with steel toecaps.
Gary or Terry, up front, squats like a constipated frog. He parodies the reds’ come-here signal, clicking invisible castanets, and bellows, ‘Fucking come and get it then.’ For a moment there’s no response; then with — to give them credit — impressive calm, the commies on the church palings jump down and saunter forward, and their mates behind climb over and follow. Some in this next line are pretty big, and some are smirking. When they’re over there are more behind.
The guys keep moving, yelling abuse. The gap’s a couple of hundred feet now and Tony’s starting to have doubts. He shouts a bit to get himself going and clenches his fists. He steals a few glances at the lads round him; one or two look uncertain but the rest don’t seem much bothered. He gets the usual watery feeling before a fight and is scanning the commies, still ambling with parodic nonchalance towards them, for the ones to avoid. A couple at the front look like real bruisers; there’s one in a ropy old jumper and jeans with a dent in his forehead, not young, some grey hairs, with an almost cannibal grin, close enough now to catch Tony looking and blow him a casual, vicious kiss. The number that have leaped the railings is a shock; the dark shelter of the church was deceptive. Someone lets out an unwitting ‘Fuck’: Tony’s not the only one recalculating odds. Sixty feet.