by R. Jay
To his credit Oliver Beaumont looked affronted at that last statement. "Could I point out that your constituents are comprised of all of the good people of Holtingham regardless of whether they voted for you, not just the current thirty percent Asian community you appear to be exclusively championing, who undoubtedly did. Whom I would expect to readily view themselves as British before any other loyalties and therefore ready to support our forces, dead or alive."
Yasir Davi's eyes appeared to bulge to twice their size as he partially rose out of his seat, now stabbing the desk top with stiffened fingers to thrust home his point.
"You misunderstand the situation sir, my people the Islamic Brotherhood belong first to Allah. No passports are issued in His name. Insult their sensibilities and there are those who will rise in anger if you allow this march!"
"Now hang on, this isn't an Orange Day Parade, nobody is celebrating any battle won. It is merely a dignified and heartfelt service of remembrance that I do not have the authority, or inclination, to ban. I doubt that even the Home Secretary could do as you ask.
"Only those events that threaten public order or state security would be refused permission to proceed."
Davi stood fully erect now, pointing sternly at the senior policeman, those bloody fingers again. His black eyes flared with bottled emotion flecked with private desperation.
"I feel it fair to warn you that I have been nominated by the local Imam no less to stand for the new role of Police and Crime Commissioner for this region Chief Constable Beaumont. Elections take place on the fifteenth, just four days after remembrance Sunday.
"I am sure that you are cognisant with the authority to be awarded to this civilian position of PCC. That is the monitoring of police performance in the effectiveness and accountability of their job, community relations and the efficient control of budgets.
"If elected, and I am quite confident that I have a residual voter loyalty, I therefore will have the power to hold the Chief Constable to account, set his forces' budget and if necessary, dismiss him from his post."
As the blunt reality of yet another populist bunch of crap from a government desperate for voter appeal confronted him, Chief Constable Beaumont sank deeper into his padded chair, never wanting to come out, well aware of the degree to which he was being warned, threatened, blackmailed even.
Yaris Davi leaned forward now, resting his bulk on hands spread flat on the desk's surface, his face intimidating, close to the face of the law for that region of East Anglia.
"Do not underestimate the reaction of my brethrens to this show of white supremacy. Not just here in Holtingham, but in other towns and cities the length of England. These are dangerous days sir, we are legion.
"In dancing to the tune of the American fiddle, you English have mortgaged your sovereignty; so now Islam will foreclose on your culture.
"Heed this warning on behalf of Mohammed; Give way to the forces of Allah or suffer the consequences!"
******
SIX
Clumsily they pushed through the double swing doors of the Legion Club, arm in arm like a married couple; Sid still wobbly on his one crutch, a prosthetic hand encased in a black nylon glove gripping on to a supporting forearm.
There were more members packed in there than usual for a Friday lunchtime, but the imminent occasion of the 11th of the 11th called for close consultation and the consumption of more beer. Everybody there turned to stare at the odd couple that had appeared in their midst; Chris Carter and the Asian lad clinging to his arm with just the trace of pain twisting his darker features.
Spontaneously a slow hand-clapping began amongst the assembled veterans that gradually built in tempo to an all out applause. Unrehearsed calls of encouragement and welcome rang from all directions as both stopped halfway from the doors to the long bar, uncertain, embarrassed.
The members so enthusiastically greeting them were not the steely-eyed toughs in uniform of their youth. Now they were middle-aged and aged family men, fathers and grandfathers, blessed with paunches, grey or greying hair, glasses, hearing-aids, and dentures. Nature doesn't discriminate for heroes.
The dress code was variegated: cardigans and slacks, department store suits, neat blazers, open necked shirts, cravats or regimental ties; short, tall, thin or fat, they were as one. A Band of Brothers. Old soldiers, sailors airmen. Most had seen battle, cried unashamedly with grief or relief, all bound together in a unique life-long camaraderie that chose not to forget the sacrifice of dead mates.
The tall figure of Henry Carter detached from a cluster of hearty members congregating at the end of the bar, strode over with a brisk nod of acknowledgement at his grandson and thrust out his big hand to Sid who in turn held out his remaining right hand to shake with a bemused expression on his face.
"Sergeant Sahni," Henry boomed warmly, "the committee welcome you to Holtingham Legion Club. Further we are delighted to have you as our newest member." He winked jovially at Chris. "That said Sydique, you'd better sign-in your guest here."
***
The Arab Spring had moved on through summer and autumn, bringing now a wintry harvest of cold death and an unsettled front of tribal and religious depression.
Abu Sharif had fled North Africa and the freedom fighters now turned oppressors, who in their triumph were reluctant to hand in their Kalashnikovs, preferring to turn them into symbols of power and state. He had handed over all of his meagre material wealth, cash, gold jewellery, a battered lap-top, to rough unscrupulous men who had promised to get him into England with vague promises of a passport and work visa.
After two weeks of precarious boat journeys, demeaning road travel jammed into the back of swaying trailers concealed behind cartons of vegetables and machinery, he had arrived in grey, cold England in the company of a dozen other bedraggled, demoralised refugees.
The men who had taken their money did not produce the passports or visas, but forced them to break their backs and risk pneumonia pulling root crops from the bleak, muddy fields of a region he learnt was East Anglia, for less pay necessary to survive on. His own people had enslaved them and grew rich along with the sour faced, fat farmer.
Abu's dream had been to go to university, train to become a surgeon, and one day go home to help rebuild his shattered country. Most of his fellow 'travellers' on that journey to hell had been lured to this England by enticing accounts of free cash, homes, health care. Hand-outs not available without papers, passports, visas.
After a week of hard, heartless toil, Abu had determined not to continue in this grim existence of victim, of exploitation. He was an educated man who could surely do better in this country he had heard so much about all his young life.
At night, he had crept from his damp, hard bed that was cramped between many others inside a rusting, metal lorry container balanced on top of building blocks inside a small copse adjacent to the broad, flat farmland they worked with frozen fingers. Under a bright winter moon and a creeping rim of dawn glow on the far horizon, he trudged along barren country lanes, through featureless countryside, across which wickedly bitter winds scythed off of the North sea, bringing banks of black rain clouds that opened up above him, soaking his inadequate, thin cotton clothes, making his teeth chatter and thin body to shake with a piercing coldness he had never experienced before.
Scant traffic passed by him, veering wide with suspicious caution of this ragged figure in strange clothing, best seen in the rear view mirror and forgotten as of no business of theirs.
With no little gratitude Abu had come upon the outskirts of a small town that a black and white metal road sign informed was Holtingham. A name that sounded cosy, welcoming, essentially English. Even more heartening, as he trod warily along its wet pavements, were surreal indications of a large Muslim presence implanted in a setting so foreign to him. Nevertheless a cultural oasis in a desert of the unfamiliar.
His hopes rose of finding work and sustenance amongst his own kind, lifting his crushed spirits. But quickly h
e discovered that prospect to be elusive. His polite enquiries soon descended to pleas at the doorways of various ethnic business premises, only to be met with cold indifference and hissed dismissal.
Yet at a mini-market and purveyor of alcoholic beverages recently ravaged by fire, a sight very familiar to Abu in his war torn country, an elderly Indian in a blue turban paused from his sorrowful salvaging of piles of destroyed stock, to locate some canned soft drink and edible food, more or less undamaged by the flames and water used to extinguish them.
Abu ravenously devoured this, profusely thanking the weary Sikh in halting English, the worlds' greatest unifier, and was directed to the town's mosque with a strangely rueful tone, a few minutes walk along the main road.
The old man had waved away Abu's gratitude. "After a short time in that place you may either curse me for sending you there, or be back in the night to burn down my new shop." He stated sorrowfully.
Though rather nonplussed at the old Indian's parting shot, a warm glow had spread inside of Abu's narrow chest at the blessed sight of the crescent and star symbol of Islam glinting wetly up on the face of a big building on what had been referred to as the High Street. That beloved and so familiar sight a promise of succour, a bed and companionship. A home from home.
But now, a full week later as he knelt for evening Salat, the fifth prayer offering of the day, Isha'a, midway between of when the red light had gone from the western sky and the rise of the white light in the east, calling for Fajr Salat, the kind Sikh's words began to make some sense.
Though he had been fed and given dry clothes, the traditional Pakistani attire Shalwar Kameez which resembled western pyjamas and the equally inadequate Khussa sandals for the climate in England, and a place to lay his head in a series of dormitories on the upper floors, Abu increasingly suffered an uneasiness over his new found sanctuary.
The bearded, wise old Mullahs of his home village who spoke the words of the prophet Mohammed, preached the philosophy of peace and respect for all mankind, would not recognise the message being rammed forth in this place that was beginning to frighten him.
There was just the one Imam here, who had moved in on the mosque some years previously, usurping and ejecting the previous clerics who had taught their flock here.
Kamal khan was a ferocious figure of absolute authority which was enforced by a 'Praetorian Guard' of grizzled and scarred veterans of the Afghanistan and Iraq conflicts. For the band of young interns he now lived on the premises with, most lost souls like himself, both illegal immigrants and disaffected British born, a strict regime of endless prayer was interlaced with vehement sermons at their madrassa schooling.
Khan would stand above them on a wooden dais draped in black silk robes, his delivery a spontaneous diatribe filled with hate and menace, the young men kneeling before him as if he were a deity they paid homage to.
Spittle would fleck his full black beard as he ranted on of heroic mujahideen fighters who were dying now to defend Islamic homelands from the Crusader devils. That it was every Muslim's duty to declare Jihad on the westerner kafur, to kill them in the name of Allah, even if that meant to die oneself and pass on to paradise.
England, he would repeatedly snarl, was a cesspit that his followers would one day purify into an Islamic state and kill the Saxon. At each incitement to murder, Khan would rake the three remaining fingers of his right hand, hooked like an eagles talon, through the void between them, and his awed congregation would respond, shouting in loud unison, 'INSHA'ALLAH!'
Such tirades against Christians, Jews and westerners generally, were delivered daily along with the continuous playing through speakers around the building, of Jihadist Nasheed, stirring songs in wailing tribal voices of battle and death. On occasion they were made to sit through amateurishly produced videos of mujahideen battles with gory, triumphal close-ups of dead US soldiers being pulled from a crashed helicopter and dragged through dusty streets and donkey shit, so far from home. Always came the obligatory cries of Insha'Allah, Abu himself too intimidated not to join in, the cold eyes of Khan's thugs constantly scanning the room for dissenters.
Most of his companions appeared content to be brainwashed, to seriously consider Kamal Khan's call to be trained in the art of killing, just so long as they were provided for and not required to work.
'I will turn you all into soldiers of Islam'
His message was clear. Kill non Muslims. "There can be only one religion. One God. Total Jihad in England was around the corner; every day a 7/7 day. We plot, we train, we will strike at the heart of the English Crusaders who have allowed us into their fortress. Allah will rule over them, Mohammed will teach them, Sharia law will control them."
Abu Sharif trembled inwardly as he joined in the chorus.
"Insha'Allah! Allahu Akbar!"
Living now in a permanent state of confusion and regret, he almost wished that he had stayed in those cold, wet fields rather than be party to this defilement of all he had believed in. An upsurge of radical venom he could not reconcile himself to, would not partake in. In coming to England he thought that he had escaped the consuming fire of this new Islamic world. But people like Kamal Khan and his henchmen had brought the fire with them, to this country that had given them shelter and asked for nothing in return.
Exposed to the hatred of these violent fanatics, he could only wonder, despair, why the British government tolerated the presence of such evil men, these common criminals. Could it be that Khan was right in that respect. 'Western society is decadent, weak and immoral. Us Muslims will bleed it dry like a Halal ritualistic slaughter, then feast on its carcass.'
He groaned inwardly. "I cannot be part of this." He whispered as he slumped forward, touching his forehead to the varnished floor, eyes screwed shut in prayer to any God prepared to listen. "Please, this cannot happen."
******
SEVEN
A Saturday morning lie-in was a luxury he hadn't known for a decade and a half. But the lure of frying bacon permeating up into his room triumphed over sloth and Chris Carter slid resignedly from his warm bed and into jeans, shivering as he rummaged through the old oak wardrobe for a fresh shirt and woolen jumper.
Grandpa was of the generation that had grown up without central heating, survived, so didn't see the need for it so late in life. Layering, that is what kept you warm, three layers at least. Vest, shirt, jumper, and a jacket if need be, even in the house. Small open coal fires that the house still boasted of in most rooms would keep you alive in extreme weather.
Forget showers, the bathroom installed in the 1960's into what had been a small box-room was as mod-con as it was going to get here. The bath itself was stained now by dripping taps the size of cannon, but it was large, plenty of elbow room, and most important of all, cast-iron. Chris remembered when he was a child on stop-over's at Grandpa's place playing for hours in there, amongst floes of soap suds, with plastic boats and submarines in the rapidly cooling water.
His breakfast was cooked and waiting, warming on a covered plate inside the old oven, a pot of tea under a woolen cosy sitting at the centre of the kitchen table. Staid music that only remote BBC channels played anymore greeted him as he pushed through the door.
Grandpa was sat quietly at the table, empty plate with congealing bacon fat before him, tea only half drunk, staring out of the window above the sink into the small, shadowy back yard, unaware of Chris's presence.
Chris tapped his shoulder lightly. "Grandpa, you okay there? You're very quiet."
"Just had a phone call from the police." The old man answered in a dull tone.
Chris's heart gave a little jump. He knew that he would be forever on their radar, vulnerable to unwarranted attention, harassment even. But for Christ's sake, he'd only been out of prison a few days!
He paused in front of the cooker, oven gloves donned. "Oh yeah, what's their problem then? Have I been spotted jay-walking or spitting on the pavement? It's a fair cop guv'nor, I'm coming out with my hands up!" He q
uipped, more bitterness than humour.
Grandpa flicked an amused, shrewd glance up at him. "Stand to soldier. Your name didn't come up. The big white chief himself wanted to speak to me personally."
"Oh that explains it then," Chris slid his food from the ticking oven, plonked it down on the table, discarding the gloves. "a young tearaway like you needs a firm talking to, keep you on the straight and narrow."
Henry Carter resumed his perusal of the backyard. "He wants me to cancel the parade on Sunday."
Chris's fork froze halfway to his mouth. "Come again?"
"Our Chief Constable considers it would be in the public interest if the Remembrance Day ceremonies were cancelled."
"In the public interest! What bloody interest is that then?" Chris Carter slammed down his utensils, the black anger taking hold.
"In his words the parade could be viewed by some sections of our community as a provocation. Glorifying our Imperial past and celebrating the foisting of Christianity on the third world. So could we please just make do with a quiet church service then go and do whatever we wish in the privacy of the Legion Hall, out of sight like consenting adults. Though we could stop by the War Memorial and leave a bunch of flowers perhaps. Poppies are too 'jingoistic' apparently."
"What did you tell the prat Grandpa?"
"To go and stick his truncheon right up his arse." Henry stated in a matter of fact manner, studying a Robin hopping along the window cill outside. There was just a touch of relish in his words. "By the way, there's a letter up there for you." He cocked a thumb over his shoulder at a shelf behind.
With a broad grin on his face Chris rose and retrieved a long crisp envelope, slitting it open with the butter knife as he sat back down, withdrawing a single folded sheet. Suddenly sombre he recognised the letter heading of Cardew, Pope & Bond, a firm of solicitors well known to him. He quickly read the contents that he'd been waiting on, eyes dancing back and forth between the letter and his grandfather.
"Mum and dad's money has been released from the trust. It was wired through to my account yesterday."