Children of the Sun

by Max Schaefer

It is a few minutes past four in the afternoon on Saturday, 37 May 1989. In less than a month he will be thirty-three.

  In the street it is warm — not the killing heat of earlier this week, but a good day for it none the less. A few doors down, at the entrance to her front porch, a small girl sits in a ruined pink armchair: ancient, disgustingly stained. Her knees can’t reach the lip of its seat, so her calves extend horizontally, poking out over the pavement. She watches him approach, and as he passes he winks at her.

  At the end of the street a dark blue car pulls up. ‘Hello Tony,’ the driver says. ‘Going to the gig?’

  He leans inside. ‘Piss off will you.’

  ‘Now don’t be a bitter old queen. Hop in. You’re getting a lift.’

  ‘So where’s the concert happening, Tony?’

  ‘If I knew I wouldn’t be going to the redirection point would I?’

  Novak smiles. ‘I’m only kidding with you. It’s at Camden Town Hall. Not any more, of course. They cancelled the booking. But you’ve got to give them credit for a sense of humour, haven’t you, those Skrewdriver boys? Trying to host a nazi shindig with a loony-left council. Expensive joke, mind, if they don’t get their deposit back.’

  ‘They’ll have back-up venues.’

  ‘Course they will. All part of the game. It’s like they say: not over till the fat bonehead sings.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tony stares through the passenger window, avoids looking at Novak. They are on Blackheath, moving along Shooters Hill like a pulled zip severing the vast flat fabric of the grass. Someone’s kite-flying is reduced by distance to its barest schematic: two points, one static, one vacillating, an implied line between. Nice area this, thinks Tony meaninglessly, a reflex action of the mind that triggers actual introspection as he wonders when he last heard from Niven. Is it really a year? But if Niven knew anything there’d have been consequences by now.

  All at once the green is pulled out from under them and they are falling towards Deptford. Near New Cross Station, Novak says, ‘That reminds me. What were you doing on the eighteenth of January, oh … eight years ago?’

  ‘Having a better time than this.’

  ‘Go on, confess to a bit of arson. Make my day.’ Novak’s aspiration to comedy is the most aggravating thing about him, probably. He pulls in by the next Paki shop and says, ‘Do us a favour, Tony. Pop in and get me a Fruit and Nut and a can of Lilt. Didn’t have my lunch today.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘And whatever you want for yourself.’ He holds out a ten-pound note. ‘You can keep the change.’ He watches Tony’s hand take the money and asks, ‘That a new tattoo? Charming.’

  ‘True isn’t it.’

  Tony buys himself a can of lager and gets Novak his chocolate bar and a Tango, which he shakes next to his thigh as he approaches the car. He lies: ‘They were out of Lilt.’ Novak eats the chocolate first: the drink has settled by the time he opens it.

  They turn up the Old Kent Road in silence. Novak has still not said why he picked Tony up, and Tony is not going to ask. Near Elephant and Castle, under a billboard that reads e.lif: can anyone make sense of it? , the traffic slows to a baked and fuming stasis.

  ‘What time are you due at Speakers’ Corner?’

  Tony looks at the clock. It will soon be five. ‘Now,’ he says.

  ‘Until when?’

  ‘They’ll be done by six.’

  ‘Got your ticket already?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We might have to sort you a refund.’

  ‘Just let me out here,’ says Tony. ‘I’ll get the tube.’

  ‘Can’t do that. I’m taking you to meet someone.’

  Tony mutters, ‘Wanker.’ Novak complains to his walkie-talkie about the traffic and gets a scratched response. ‘Ah,’ he says, digging around his feet for something which he puts through the open window: it lands on the roof with a magnetic clunk. He presses a switch and a siren starts; a few cars in front of them move vaguely aside, and they force their way slowly through.

  Alongside the Imperial War Museum, Novak kills the noise and comes to a halt. The junction ahead is clogged with Asians, arriving from the distance in a steady stream and filling up the small park around the building. They are all men, some in suits and others those white sheet-like dresses they wear, with beards and little round hats. Most smile and chat; a few look determinedly dour. They hold banners in awkward, formal English: sacrilege cannot be good business, penguin do not become gutter press.

  ‘There’s only fifty thousand of these jokers between here and Hyde Park,’ Novak says. ‘Shouldn’t slow us down too much.’ The tail end of a group of old men shuffles past to reveal quite different marchers behind. They are in their twenties: they have moustaches and permed hair, pale jeans, the odd nastily patterned sweater. They are chanting in call and response. ‘Rusty - bastard!’ it sounds like. ‘Rusty — bastard!’ Some punch the air on the chorused answer. One catches Tony’s eye through the windscreen. He says something to the man next to him and points.

  Novak is smirking. ‘Just let you out here then, shall I?’ he says.

  Using the siren when it suits him, he presses on through the traffic and over Waterloo Bridge. By the time they cross it is gone five-thirty. The redirection will be over soon.

  Novak says, ‘Do you know where they’ve all come from? Hyde Park. And where are you lot gathering for Hitler’s hundredth birthday party? Hyde fucking Park. You couldn’t make this shit up.’

  They give up on a packed Strand and cut through to the river, but the embankment road is blocked at Westminster by a police cordon. Novak could presumably get through, but there is nowhere to go; the bridge, and the road into Parliament Square, are solid with people: marchers, policemen in riot gear gathered round their vans. Novak stops the car.

  ‘How much was the ticket again?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Stretch your legs if you want. We’ll be here awhile.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’m not driving round half of London to bring you to Special Branch. If Muhammad can’t get to the mountain because his fucking followers are in the way, then the mountain’s going to have to walk.’

  Tony gets out. Looking down at the river, he is ambushed by the memory of standing somewhere like this with Dennis, waiting for that queer photographer. Were they having an argument? Novak is talking on his radio again; Tony knocks on the window, gestures for a cigarette. He lights it and watches the bridge. The crowd is stationary, not moving forward into Lambeth; indeed, most face back in the direction they came. New arrivals from the north halt uncertainly upon reaching them. A few policemen are visible on the far side of the bridge, where some marchers are sitting in the road. It looks like an attempt to negotiate: there is clear disagreement, almost mimed. Eventually the police withdraw and return to where their troops are assembled, alongside the closest section of the march.

  There is a noise behind Tony and he turns to see more vans parking in the empty street: scores of policemen get out wearing helmets and shields, and are led off quickly. Meanwhile on the bridge some younger demonstrators have surrounded a police van, yelling: after a couple of minutes of this a group of about thirty riot cops, who have been standing off to the far side of the march, abruptly charge them. There is panic as people try to get out of the way, some scrambling over the crash barriers between them and the road where Tony stands. A young Asian in a leather jacket, having cleared the barriers, runs in Tony’s direction, pursued by a yelling policeman. They are ten feet away when the policeman catches up. He reaches for the Asian, who turns at his touch, and the policeman punches him hard in the face. The Asian stumbles back over half-turned legs and the policeman jumps him and pushes him against the road. There is a struggle in which the Asian is soon cuffed, then dragged over tarmac to the nearest van. Other marchers harangue the police as they force the handcuffed Asian inside. When the doors close they back up their shouts with hurled sticks and soft-drink cans. Th
e police take cover behind the vehicle. Groups of riot cops make sorties into the crowd, targeting youths whom they seize one by one, pinned and wriggling on the black wall of their shields, and shove into vans. Tony grinds his cigarette into the pavement.

  Novak stands next to him. ‘Are we winning yet?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘We will. They’re doing better than your mates, though, these Pakis.’ He waits for Tony to ask what he means, so Tony doesn’t. Eventually Novak gives up. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I was just talking to some of the boys over Speakers’ Corner. Turns out a few hundred lads from Anti-Fascist Action had the bright idea of occupying the redirection point before Blood & Honour turned up. They’ve been picking off boneheads as they arrive, beating the crap out of them. Blood all over the shop. Bit less of the honour … Course, our boys would love to keep the peace and protect your poor defenceless mates, but we’re a bit overstretched today so AFA have free rein, basically. They’re a scary crew when they’re properly tooled up. Terrible business.’ He tuts, smirking again. ‘Not to worry though, we’ll drop you up there soon enough, you can come to the rescue … Oh dear. Quarter-past six.’

  Tony says, ‘You found out where the gig is?’

  ‘Oh yeah, apparently that Nicky Crane turned up with a minibus of elite fighters or whatever and a minute later they were all running off like this.’ He flails his wrists. ‘Here, have you and him ever done the dirty?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Don’t be a sour old bitch, you’ll get wrinkles. No, I’m only kidding with you. Except the running-away bit, I had that from the lads up Hyde Park. Eyewitnesses. Honest Injun.’ Ahead, a hundred or more policemen have massed into formation and begin to move against the crowd, trying to herd them across the bridge. Their riot shields merge into an unbroken plough, over which long truncheons threaten vigorously. The closest marchers are forced to move, but those further on hold their ground, and some who were sitting at the far end now press the crowd in the other direction. From the crushed centre come cries of mounting panic, and everyone is shouting, in English and in other languages.

  Tony says, ‘Why won’t they move forward?’

  By the nearby crash barrier, where police hold back the later section of the march, a white man emerges, heading for Novak and Tony. He is forty-something, with a grey suit and receding hair, and a plastic folder under his arm. ‘How’s it going?’ he asks, shaking Novak’s hand. ‘And you must be Tony. I’m Bruno. It’s my surname, I’m not being friendly. Let’s go for a drive.’

  Novak has reversed the car into a turn, his left arm across the passenger seat, looking through the rear window, when he says, ‘I don’t believe it. Look at this.’ He gets out, and the others follow.

  On the bridge, the police charge has abated. The marchers stand with their backs to Tony, leaning forward at the waist, as if mooning him en masse. After briefly holding this position they stand again, then promptly kneel and, still facing away, prostrate themselves on the floor. With the lowering sun cutting across them from the right, they could be neat rows of huts on a beach at evening. They sit up straight, prostrate themselves, stand back up. They raise their hands. All of this is more or less coordinated, and seems, from where Tony watches, to be entirely silent. The police stand off to the side. The response of the majority is invisible behind their helmets; of the others, a few look awkward, and several laugh.

  Bruno says, ‘So what’s your take on all this then, Tony?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That. Karachi Central.’

  They are driving away from the march, up into the West End. Tony says, ‘Well they shouldn’t be here should they?’

  ‘Who shouldn’t?’

  ‘None of them. Them ones or the wog wrote the book.’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘They should be having it out in Delhi or wherever.’ Everyone will be heading to the gig now. ‘Mind you it might be a good thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All this. When the British people see how many are over here. All in one place like that. People might wake up.’

  Bruno smiles. ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’

  ‘It’s not complicated.’

  Bruno unzips his folder and leafs through the papers inside. Without looking up he says, ‘So what’s your position on the fatwa?’

  ‘The fat what?’

  ‘Come on, Tony. From what I hear you’re not that thick. Death sentence, courtesy of the beardy git on the placards.’ Maybe he’s got a point — I’ve heard the guy’s a moany cunt.’

  ‘I’m not interested in Arabs.’

  ‘Khomeini’s not an Arab. I thought you knew that stuff. Or’ — he takes a magazine from his folder — ‘did your subscription lapse?’

  It is a copy of Nationalism Today. The cover is the usual green and white, its strap line A Call to Arms, a Call to Sacrifice. Novak says, ‘This is last month’s issue. We get it in the post.’

  Tony says, ‘I don’t read that shit.’

  ‘Really? You’re missing out.’ He holds out the magazine: an article called ‘Iran: An Assessment’, a young boy pictured with a massive gun.

  Tony scans the page. It looks typically unreadable, all italic quotes and exhortations in boldface. Subheadings are scattered throughout: ‘A Godsend … Yankee hypocrites … Revolutionary future.’

  Bruno says, ‘You really don’t read this?’ He turns the page and reads: ‘“Reflections from a National Front prisoner”. This one’s fun. “Either you are with us or against us. There is no third option. To reclaim that which is rightfully ours, we shall fight to the end. Long live Death!”’

  ‘Am I being thick,’ Tony asks, ‘or have you not got a point?’

  Novak is driving them, apparently randomly, round Covent Garden. He seems in no hurry to get to Hyde Park. Bruno says, ‘Want to know a secret? We don’t think Lockerbie was the Iranians at all. The Americans are pushing that line but it’s politics. We’re pretty sure it was Libya.’

  ‘Is there a difference?’

  ‘Actually that’s no secret, it was in the papers. You do read the papers?’

  ‘I read my horoscope. Today it said you will have your entire fucking day wasted by coppers who talk bollocks for hours, and miss Skrewdriver.’

  Bruno produces another document: ‘This one we had to intercept.’ national front says its letterhead in huge type, and underneath, The Movement of the Future. Bruno reads aloud: “‘Dear Comrade Colonel.

  ‘“Let me first extend to you National Revolutionary Greetings from the National Front in Britain and express the sincere hope that the spirit encapsulated in The Green Book continues to inspire the revolutionaries and people of your country.

  “‘Your book, a seminal work by any political criterion, has been subjected to rigorous analysis within the Movement for the greater part of the last two years, in response to the political, historical and philosophical needs of the Third Position in this country,” blah blah. We’ll both fall asleep if I read the whole thing … “They degraded and exploited the mass of our people” — can’t imagine who “they” are, can you? — “in the horror of the Industrial Revolution: a horror so vile that it would bring true tears of pain and sympathy to your eyes; they destroyed the pristine purity and beauty of the Gospel of Christ, perverting it and harnessing it to the service of the minions of the Dark One …” Well, you get the idea. Have you seen the photos of their trip? Griffin, Harrington and Holland standing like tiny pillocks before pictures of Gaddafi the size of Tripoli?’

  ‘I’ve never been in the Front.’

  Bruno zips his folder and looks out at the weekend crowd. After a while he says, ‘Do you know how many people died on that plane? Two hundred and sixty. Not including the folks on the ground. Long live Death, eh? Bodies and wreckage across eight hundred square miles. Bits of head and spine in people’s driveways. Burst stomachs in flowerbeds. Have you seen the pictures? No, even if you read the papers you haven’t, becaus
e they weren’t in the papers. But I’ve seen the pictures.’

  ‘I’ve never been a member.’

  ‘Fucking journalists still pilfered from the bodies of course.’

  ‘British Movement all the way. I hate Arabs.’

  ‘Course you do. You’re an old-fashioned thug. As a matter of fact I can understand where you’re coming from. I’m not saying I approve of how you go round expressing your opinions, but at least you’re loyal to Britain. Shit-hole wanking aside. No, it’s your boyfriend I’m interested in.’

  For some reason, for the last minute or two, since Bruno started going on about body parts, Novak has been driving them in circles round Seven Dials. The theatre keeps flashing past, sherlock holmes — sherlock holmes, and Tony has begun to feel sick. He mumbles: ‘But … he’s out of it.’

  ‘Can’t hear you mate.’

  ‘Glenn? He’s out of the whole thing. I mean from what I heard he joined those SHARP wankers. Skinheads Against Racist Prejudice or whatever. He’s practically a red these days. I don’t want nothing to do with him any more.’

  ‘Who’s Glenn then, Tony?’

  At last Novak breaks his tight loop and takes off for Shaftesbury Avenue. He grins into the mirror: ‘How many boyfriends have you had, you slag?’

  ‘Who do you mean,’ Tony insists, ‘my boyfriend?’

  ‘I mean Dave Masters,’ Bruno tells him. ‘Who do you mean?’ Tony stares at him. The mention of Dave’s name has dramatically amplified his motion sickness. He says, ‘You’re talking shit.’

  ‘Come on, Tony, do you think you’re the only snitch we’ve got?’

  ‘Dave? He’s never … he isn’t. We’ve never— this is bullshit.’

  Novak pulls into an alley behind the cinema, where a tiny park hides. The policemen get out and Bruno holds Tony’s door until he follows. They sit on a bench under a tree, watching a woman push her child on a swing. Novak gives Tony a cigarette. In his grip it exaggerates the tremble of his fingers.

  Bruno says, ‘You’d be doing him a favour if you helped us out.’