by R. Jay
List of Titles by this Author
A Band Begins To Play
Triple-Tap
Killer-Blood
Strange Fruit on Tyburn Tree
of Hope and Glory
of HOPE
and GLORY
R.JAY
After a long absence, Chris Carter returns home to a town he barely recognises. Already targeted by local law enforcement, he is thrust into a contentious and spiralling battle to combat a growing threat to all that he holds dear; family, friends and national identity. Under the banner of the newly formed 'English Front Line', he and the young men of Holtingham vow to defend their culture and country against the amassed forces of Islamic extremism and the self-serving, politically-correct lobbyists. The escalation of murder and a Jihadist planned, ultimate terrorist-strike at the heart and soul of England, demands a swift, merciless reaction and the greatest of sacrifice, if two thousand years of proud history are not to be swept away.
Though a tale of fiction, ' . . . . of Hope and Glory ' is based on the stark facts of present day Britain and the very uncertain and fraught future she faces.
of HOPE and GLORY
Author R. Jay
Copyright: R. JAY, 2012
The author has asserted their moral right under the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified
as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
Land of Hope and Glory,
Mother of the Free,
How shall we extol thee,
who are born of thee?
Wider still, and wider,
shall thy bounds be set;
God, who made thee mighty,
make thee mightier yet!
Dear Land of Hope, thy hope is crowned.
God make thee mightier yet!
On Sov'ran brows, beloved, renowned,
Once more thy crown is set.
Thine equal laws, by Freedom gained,
Have ruled thee well and long;
By Freedom gained, by Truth maintained,
Thine Empire shall be strong.
Thy fame is ancient as the days,
As Ocean large and wide:
A pride that dares, and heeds not praise,
A stern and silent pride.
Not that false joy that dreams content
With what our sires have won;
The blood a hero sire hath spent
Still nerves a hero son.
Edward Elgar / A.C. Benson - 1902
s
One
The same nightmare, always the same.
A blinding light, a metallic screech, a hammer blow to the head, an upended world, blackness and death's silence, save for the trickle and drip of blood. And that awful, awful screaming.
***
It was a short taxi ride from the station to Mafeking Road, but one that would make deep inroads to the cash that they had given him. He was a big man, a jagged scar bisecting the left side of his forehead, a haunted look buried deep in those hard eyes. The driver's constant perusal in the rear view mirror, curiosity and puzzlement alive in those intrusive eyes, was both unsettling and annoying. The man was about the same age as him, he'd remember eventually. It was a small town Holtingham, that hugged its history close to its municipal skirts like off-spring, both good and bad.
He gazed out of the car windows through a falling crisp November dusk at surrounds he had been born and grew up in but no longer recognised for what it was. The small Co-op in the High Street had gone, was now a Halal butchers: the Woolworths store an empty shell nobody had use for, windows boarded up, the iconic white lettering removed leaving a Morse code of fixing holes dotted across the red signage; the small tailor shop from which Manny had diligently measured and stitched suits for the town's men-folk for ever, Teddy Boy drapes in the 50's, dinner jackets for gentlemen, economy line clobber for lowly office workers, now sold colourful saris that the new owners hung on rails out on the pavement like a discordant rainbow.
Most disturbing of all was the apparent demise of Holtingham's premier social centre that had been the Countryman Hotel. An historic former coaching-inn that gave four star shelter to passing travellers and visitors, a choice of three bars, Public, Lounge and Snug, that cemented local socialising. The Grand Ballroom for years had catered for Saturday night dances, wedding receptions and formal occasions from retirement do's, Christenings to Bar Mitzvah's whilst the local Masonic Lodge indulged in their secret gatherings in opulent basement rooms.
Now the street level windows had been blanked out with black paint and a huge, gold leafed, Saladin's star and crescent emblem hung from the red-brick face of a town institution turned mosque, glittering with a smug declaration of new lands conquered. On and around the stone steps that led to the entrance of heavy mahogany doors, a hunched group of young men in hooded tops hung about, their shadowed dark faces glaring challengingly at anybody passing by.
The taxi braked sharply at a zebra-crossing jerking him rudely back to his immediate surrounds as a stoned Son of Marley lurched off of the pavement into their path, balefully staring back at them as he staggered across the road tossing a half drunk can of Special Brew that bounced off of the windscreen splattering it with foaming gobs of beer.
He braced himself on the back seat for an inevitable confrontation that never came. The driver's eyes returned fleetingly to the rear view mirror then turned away shamefaced.
"Not worth the aggro' mate. If you win the round without getting yourself shivved, you're bound to be the guilty party in the eyes of the trendy law we got now." Irately he crunched the car back into gear nodding toward the young Asian men on the steps of the mosque. "On top of everything else we got Mohammed's boys over there giving grief to passers by, women in short skirts, anybody with alcohol in their possession. An insult to Islam they say. Christ, where the hell are we meant to be?
"In the words of that old Max Bygraves song, 'Fings Ain't Wot They Used To Be'." Moodily he accelerated away, keeping his own counsel for the remainder of the journey. That took them to a narrow, terraced, Victorian cottage in a quiet side street, indistinguishable from its neighbours apart from the deterioration of its paintwork, a front gate hanging askew on its hinges.
The driver pulled into the kerb keeping his eyes off of the mirror.
"You're Chris Carter aren't you? Thought I recognised you, heard that you were coming back."
Chris Carter didn't answer, steered clear of sore territory. Dragging his old handgrip across the seat to him he climbed out of the car and stood at the driver's window pulling money from his pockets.
The driver eyed his meagre reserves, held up a hand, palm outwards. "Nah, keep your money, I don't want it."
With that he drove away with what may have been a languid wave goodbye from his opened window, or just as easily a rude gesture.
The gate creaked with aged protest as Carter pushed through it into the small front garden and walked up the short path to a front door peeling several layers of paint. Before he could even knock it was pulled open by an old man who stood there staring back at him with a stern, sombre expression. Despite his advanced age his back was ramrod straight, unbowed broad shoulders filled the doorway. A magnificent walrus moustache curved across his cheeks to merge with broad sideburns and a full head of thick white hair. A very proud and rather fierce looking eighty-nine year old, that looked every inch of a Victorian general.
"Hello grandpa."
"Come on in boy." On his gruff command the elderly man turned about and marched back along a narrow, dark hallway t
o a rear scullery, leaving Chris Carter to follow him, shutting the door behind them both. Chris paused at the doorway to the small room, momentarily taken aback to see his parents, both long dead, smiling up at him.
"Sorry, couldn't stretch to some fancy welcome home party young man. But then I doubt that there'd be many come after what you did." His grandfather blurted out awkwardly. "Thought we'd have our own celebration, just the four of us." Like a magician he whipped a bottle of dark Jamaica rum from behind his back. "Glasses in that cupboard there, step to it. Got some food in the fridge too. Good grub, not that swill you've been feeding on."
He turned his head a little too quickly as he fumbled with the handle of an ancient cream Frigidaire. Correspondingly the backs of Chris Carter's eyes prickled hotly a moment as he dragged them away from the photograph propped up against a sauce bottle on the scrubbed pine table. Felt no guilt.
"I'll get four glasses shall I grandpa? Can't let mum and dad get left out."
"I'm sure we can always help them along with their drinks son. Be one happy family again, for a while."
Chris had never seen his grandfather cry and he knew that was not about to happen now, but the old man's hand shook as he dispensed four large shots of Captain Morgan. Picking up two of the glasses he stood to parade ground attention as he addressed the photograph, his strong square face grim with purpose.
"Phillip, Ivy, your boy is home at last. Been gone these last fifteen years, lost years. We all forgive him, the past is past." With swift movements he downed both drinks in virtually one gulp then indicated that Chris do the same.
It had been a long time since alcohol had passed his lips but he solemnly complied, eyes streaming as the neat spirit burned its way down inside him.
"Mum, dad, hello again." Was all he could say without shaming himself in front of the old man who was both his mentor and God. "Grandpa, I've got to thank you for all your support and giving me a home to come back…."
"Forget it son. You're family, of my blood. Families are the building blocks of society, bricks in the wall; then your neighbours, then your countrymen. Break them up then the whole edifice comes tumbling down" He slammed the glasses a little too hard down onto the table to mask his deep emotion, one cracked. He swept it to one side, pushed the other forward. "You do the honours son, fill that up, and yours. Have one of these sandwiches, soak it up. No half empty bottles allowed here."
***
The empty bottle shamelessly stood on the drainer, a memento of a good night had. Well, as good a time Chris Carter could have hoped for, fresh out of Her Majesty's Prison Norwich as he was. There was a dull ache behind his eyes and a raging thirst clawed at his throat, prompting him to fill one of last night's glasses at the sink tap, downed it greedily. An excess of rum did that to you he remembered.
From a small transistor radio on top of the bread bin, the BBC 9 am. news spread celebrity gossip and politicians' lies. Grandpa Henry Carter had left the house already, unaffected by any hang-over, marching on the Legion Hall.
"Got a parade to organise."
There was a front door key left with a scribbled note on the work top. 'Don't mope about hiding in the house. Get out there and face the enemy! Back for lunch.'
Crikey! It was like being back in the slammer, ordered about, your day programmed for you. The light grin on his face faded as quick as it had appeared. As deeply grateful as he was for the shelter and comfort this house offered, its smallness and shadows were suddenly contracting around him; walls pressing inward; the ceiling lowering down to suffocate and crush. It was as if he were back in that soulless little cell. Well, he could open the door to this prison any time he liked, go and walk under a blue, well, dirty grey sky, and breathe semi-clean air. Free of the all pervading prison smell of boiled cabbage, urine and shit. So long as you stayed away from the telephone boxes.
***
In no time at all Chris Carter had run a shallow, luke warm bath, and scrubbed off a convict's patination; it didn't do to hang around in prison ablutions. He changed into fresh clothing from his threadbare wardrobe and slammed the front door shut behind him, dislodging a variegated palette of paint flakes, and strode off purposefully towards the town centre.
With his very own key in one pocket and a borrowed wallet containing the remnants of prison pay in the other, he felt like a man of substance, a man of the world. A world without walls and watchful screws, a free space without restrictions; well none that were too visible.
Now the ripe old age of thirty-four years, Carter could look back over a lost life and ruminate at how at eighteen years old , barely out of boyhood, cruel fate had catapulted him headlong into a harsh level of adulthood, one in which you matured fast or perished even quicker.
An early morning threat of sharp frost had backed away with just a slap on the cheeks that tingled and white vapour coloured his steady exhalation as he wandered the streets of his childhood. For two hours he meandered aimlessly, his feet finding their own direction through half forgotten memories, on streets he had played in, kicked footballs about, gone to seek his mates in.
There was the old park at the edge of a small estate where his parents had bought their first and only home, a short stroll from grandpa's little terraced cottage. The swings, see-saw and roundabout a rusting no-go area now, spiked metal gates secured with a chain and padlock with a notice, a stern warning from the Town Clerk, that the play area failed to conform with EU health and safety regulations.
The creaking metal contraptions that they had swung and bounced up and down on; dangled upside down from; climbed up and jumped off; had doubled as pirate ships and space rockets or racing cars; had skinned their shins and elbows, harvested blooms of dark purple bruises on; had now been deemed unsuitable for child development, nasty dangerous things, by a grey faced Brussels bureaucrat. 'Go home to your overheated bedrooms, your Xbox's and computer games, rest your young imaginations and limbs: By Order'.
The wondrous corner sweet shop where they had surreptitiously pocketed illicit pick and mix toffees had been revamped into a 'des-res'. A babbling little brook that had run in a deep culvert where they had fished for tadpoles had been piped and buried underground to accommodate a cycle path frequented by grimly enthusiastic riders dressed in obligatory, look-a-like, lycra Spiderman outfits, destined to save the world from auto pollution.
Depressingly Chris Carter acknowledged the irksome fact that whilst he had been 'away' the present had stolen his past and denied his future. But he was back to stay, with an ill defined ambition to take back his disjointed life. How, he hadn't a clue.
A bell pealed, echoing through his melancholy, a bell that rang a bell. Chris looked up and around him, a little surprised at how he had wandered into School Close, a location for him of little nostalgia but nonetheless a major element of his young life. High metal gates and chipped railings stretched protectively across the end of the short cul-de-sac against which he stopped, peering through at the rag-tag of 60's jerry building and add on desperate looking demountable classrooms that were more of a hazard to youngsters' health than the playground ever had been.
That piercing clarion call rent the crisp air a second time. He knew what it was, the lunch-time bell. Not everything had changed then. He moved along standing behind a small knot of waiting mothers, a whimsical, soft smile parted his lips as he watched the familiar schoolhouse doors burst wide open before an onrush of ten and eleven year olds, racing for the gateway and their mothers with combative zeal.
In startling contrast to his own childhood here, at least a third of the pupils were of obvious ethnic origin, black, brown, olive skinned. In his day the only 'coloured' kid in the school had been his mate Sydique Sahni, or 'Sid' as he'd been affectionately dubbed
"What you want here?" The clipped voice, an aggressive demand, from a plump Polish woman in a cherry red quilted coat, was hurled in his direction, drawing curious, suspicious glances from the other parents there.
Chris started with surpris
e, switching his attention away from the swirl of kids spilling out of the gates into their mothers' embraces already dark faced with suspicion and a touch of fear.
"Um, nothing really. Just came along to look at my old school." He offered lamely, backing away a couple of faltering steps. Christ, they thought he was some paedo' fucker! Time was his grandfather, or any father, could stand outside the gates to collect their kith and kin without attracting any attention. Now liberalism had brought the predatory hyena closer to the home boundaries and everyone was a potential threat.
Instinctively he avoided further explanation, he was a probable pariah in the general consensus of protective mothers, there was no point in any confrontation. Rather sheepishly Chris turned around and walked back along the road rather quicker than he had entered it, feeling strangely guilty for causing such concern. Before he had reached the end and turned toward the High Street, the mother who had elected herself neighbourhood guardian had fished a mobile from her pocket and was agitatedly demanding the emergency services
The High Street, up close, appeared to be even more of an alien place than it had through a taxi window the night before. The empty Woolworths proved to have been utilised as, for want of a better term, a foreign bazaar, the new phenomena of pop-up' shop. The old serve yourself counters now displayed exotic goods. Nuts, spices and strange fruits the man from Del Monte had neither said yey or nay to. Cardboard barrels of seed stuff and powdered ingredients had small scoops on top for customers to load brown paper bags with. The bright yellow of saffron and equally colourful reds and greens of essential flavourings glowed in the darkened interior, behind the hoarding of a failed mainstay of this old English town.
Hovering somewhere at the back of his nasal passages a faint aroma of curry and other less familiar scents seeped through. Rather dubious dried meats in strips or chunks were laid out for the flies to feast on. Faintly perturbed at the changes that had overtaken his hometown Holtingham, and resisting the self comparison with Rip Van Winkle, Chris Carter exited the place and turned in the direction of another old haunt of his, the George and Dragon pub, fervently praying that that had escaped the revolution of multi-culturism.