. . . . of Hope and Glory

by R. Jay

  "She was not sent back to Pakistan to live there. Her sentence was to die there. The whole village gathered in the street when she arrived, alone and frightened. Stoned her to death. Honour was satisfied, God was in his heaven."

  Chris's face had turned a pasty white beyond the prison pallor, overwhelming pity there. "Your father, did he stay here?"

  Sid's eyes rose now to meet his, a fierce glint to them. "Apart from a period when he went off somewhere to ferment revolution, got blown up and injured for his trouble before coming back and hijacking the Mosque to become Imam, yes. Kamal Khan is my father. You still wonder why I reject the religion of my birth?"

  ******

  TEN

  Try as he might, Chris could not persuade Sydique Sahni to depart from his small, safe little home a second time, so soon. He had ventured out into the sunlight and been burnt publicly at the media stake.

  "I know that your trying to help me Chris and it is really appreciated." He assured in dulled tones. "Just give me a bit of space for a day or two aye. Give people time to forget that article in the paper. I don't want some mad bitch in a burqa laying in to me in the High street. Right now I'm like humpty-dumpty and so are you. We've both got to put ourselves back together again." He grinned suddenly, the old Sid Sandwich' peeking through. "Look Barry called by last night. I think he'd had a bit of a session down at the George and Dragon after they'd released him from the nick. Said that if I was to see you first, to tell you to get yourself down there at lunchtime today. He owes you a drink apparently. And no, I don't want to come with you, thanks."

  Chris sighed, knew his friend of old to be an obstinate little sod once his mind was set. Reluctantly he stood to leave, wincing with the pain in his ribs.

  "Okay, if your sure you want to be a bleeding hermit go ahead. I best go and see that that brute don't go and overdo it two days on the go." He noted with surprise that the whisky bottle was empty. Where did that go? "Do you want me to go and fetch another bottle first? You'll need something to keep you company."

  Sid drained his cup, rolled his eyes with mock horror. "What? And me a good Muslim boy drink the devil's piss. Get thee behind me White Boy, never darken my cave entrance again."

  Chris patted him lightly on the head. "When you're ready to rock n' roll just give me a shout okay?"

  "Sure, Kimosabe."

  "When the door closed softly behind Chris, Sid reached for the telephone down beside his sofa, dialled a number. It took a little while before it was answered against a tumult of background noise.

  "Yeah it's me. He's on his way. Get ready for him."

  ***

  Chris walked slowly across to the George and Dragon, work off all that whisky before starting in on the pints of dodgy bitter they sold here. The tired old pub did not look any more appealing than it had several days ago and he was sorely tempted to turn on his heel, go back home and see what grandpa was up to. That old man had more life in him than this place.

  The sight of a police patrol car slowing down at the junction to the High Street decided it for him. He might just have been getting paranoid, but then a swift half would not harm now would it?

  As he pushed open the bar door and stepped hastily through it claiming sanctity, he realised too late that he'd walked into an ambush. A great roar hit him full on as his arms were grabbed from either side and he was dragged further into the packed out bar. There must have been twenty to thirty of them at least, all there waiting for him. Above the bar, dangling over the optics, was a huge flag of St. George overwritten with the message, 'WELCOME HOME CHRIS'.

  Not very original he thought, at least there were no balloons, but a nice gesture from a whole bunch of faces he barely remembered, not after fifteen traumatic years in the slammer and a night in the cells at the local nick.

  The Ryan brothers yes, who could forget them? Some others who had been class-mates and a few who had been closer to the 'Three Musketeers', himself, Barry and Sid; when they had all been Jack the Lads about town. He assumed he'd known the rest of them at one time or another.

  "Oi, Chris! Here you go." Barry Wells stood at the bar, grinning like the Pope in a strip club. He wafted a brimming pint in the air, slopping foam down its sides over his fingers. They'd obviously already started without him and it was barely midday.

  The whole bar launched into a hearty but disjointed rendering of, 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow', until one by one they dropped out for lack of words, capping that with three cheers and banging their beer mugs on the table tops.

  Chris Carter, the Boy Returned, stared about him wide-eyed, a little fazed by it all. "You got the right person?" He quipped dryly.

  Laughter, whistles and cat-calls kind of confirmed that they had. He was immersed in a whirl of back slapping. hand-shakes and jumbled greetings.

  "'Ere, you remember the time … ?"

  "Didn't you used to …. ?"

  "What's it really like in the nick … ?"

  "Hope you watched your back in the showers … ?"

  "Did you know that old what's his name … ?"

  Not one conversation was complete before another was thrust upon him, as was more drink and oddly, a plate of sausage rolls and a tomato.

  Barry winked. "We had a whip round. Lil behind the bar there done the catering like, and we bought the whole barrel. So get some down you mate."

  Chris nodded dumbly. A mouth full of food whilst tackling three conversations at a go was not easy. Animated talk moved excitedly from prison to yesterday's parade and riot.

  Looking about the bar now, he could pick out faces of those he got to see charging into the fray to 'sort out those fucking rag-heads'. All strong young men, most in their thirties, some pushing forty. Tradesmen, traders, small business proprietors. Proud of who and what they were. Most still wore their poppies from yesterday. Remembrance Sunday was good for more than a day here.

  Oddly, Chris suddenly felt emotional to be in the company of these rough and ready, staunchly patriotic lads, whose like, for generation after generation, represented the back-bone and strong arm of England they so shamelessly loved. The drink fused together spirit and friendship, melting away the clouds of time, joining together this solid gathering of old mates.

  For a 'little surprise', a novelty strip-act made a noisy appearance, an eighteen stone fat lass standing on a makeshift stage of upturned beer crates, gyrating white folds of flesh in all directions to raunchy music; performed with a grim expression; she needed the money. Chris needed the laugh. To raucous applause, she was shown out before her time was up, with a generous bonus of paper cash tucked into her knickers elastic ('keep 'em on luv' please') as Chris Carter's delayed homecoming celebration took on a party atmosphere.

  It was early afternoon when the doors were barged noisily open by a latecomer in paint splotched overalls, Nobby Clark, who bowled into the bar with a gleeful grin, waving aloft an A4 sized sheet of yellow paper.

  "Get a load of this lads!" His voice raised with excited anticipation.

  Heads turned inquisitively as the bar fell to an expectant hush. He held the sheet at arm's length to read out like a town crier, one stiffened finger stuck up in the air.

  "You won't believe this. These things are popping up all over the town, lamp-posts, shop windows, bleeding everywhere. I got this off of one of the cheeky bastards sticking them up. Had to chase him halfway up the High Street then give him a bit of a slap to get it. Here." He tossed a sheaf of the posters up in the air, he pulled from under his whites, that floated down like giant, yellow snowflakes. "He gave up the rest of 'em too then.

  "Right listen up. 'We The Invaders, members of the 'Brotherhood of Muslim Britain' … "

  "Oi', that spells out B.O.M.B. don't it?" Somebody yelled out from the back.

  " … give notice that as of midnight 11th September, Jihad has been declared on the infidels of Holtingham. This state of Holy War will inspire our brothers elsewhere in England to rise up and punish the crusaders. This action is taken in resp
onse to criminal military actions by British forces in Iraq and Afghanistan, and to state terrorism as practised by the British police against our number here in the UK. Beware, you have suffered your 7/7, now prepare for your 9/11.

  Therefore take note: Sharia Law has been declared in Holtingham. All transgressors will face the fury and iron fist of Allah. ALLAHU AKBAR!"

  A moment's silence fell over the room, until spontaneously, ribald laughter swept over them all, including Lil' behind the bar. It lasted a long time.

  ***

  Just once a year, Henry Carter would drag this box from the bottom of his wardrobe, place it on his dresser, and revisit his life. His medals and red beret had been laid on the polished oak top of the unit after yesterday's parade, ready to be packed away until the following November. Now in a strangely sombre mood he rummaged through the other contents, something that never failed to bring a lump to his throat. Birth and marriage certificates, old letters, most in his own hurried hand, a deck of black and white photos, curling at the edges, some cracked or torn.

  His own grandfather in the new khaki coloured uniform and Pith helmet of the Boer War, introduced to blend in with the African terrain rather than the Madder Red coats that made such good targets for the Boer marksmen of the Transvaal. Little good it did him. He peered into the lens with mournful eyes as if already aware that he would never return.

  His father, similar pose in the WW1 uniform complete with puttees and a grin of anticipation of setting out on the big adventure with his pals. He came back but left his spirit behind in the meat-grinder killing machine of the trenches.

  Henry's own image at eighteen years of age a quarter of a century later, with a purposeful, proud smile. On his cropped head at a cocky angle, the coveted red beret of the Parachute Regiment, 'The Red Devils', as dubbed by traumatised German soldiers who'd had the misfortune to confront the demon fighters who dropped out of the skies.

  Vivid memories flooded back: Of September 1944, gliding down through night clouds into the conflagration to be that was Arnhem. Of the savage fighting and merciful escape. At this distance of time, definitely one of the highs of his career.

  Then the saddest of moments, the liberation of Bergen-Belsen, marching into that hell on earth, witnessing at first hand the unbelievable wickedness of Nazi crimes, to de-humanise and eradicate Jewish and minority groups. The fearful memories of which that still echoed down the decades and cynically utilised by those with ulterior agendas.

  The bewildering parallel when his regiment was deployed to Palestine after the war's end, witnessing the inhuman treatment and murder of Arabs and those same British troops who had freed the skeletal Jewish survivors of the camps, by Israeli terror gangs, the Irgun and Stern.

  Henry had experienced the full circle of man's suffering and evil ways and had been left with no illusions but a fortified sense of right and wrong, honour and justice; had done his duty combating real evil as a soldier and proud Englishman.

  Life on occasion had rewarded him. The wedding photograph was all he had of that day in 1950, a snatched moment of time on a forty-eight hour pass. A young couple so full of hope and happiness that was dashed away in 1974 when Doris had suddenly left him, fell dead at his own feet, heart attack, no time for goodbyes.

  He'd left the army that same year, over thirty years solid, loyal service to his country. His abject misery and loneliness salved by the son she had given him. Phillip, a fine, strong young man who had opted to enlist in the Royal Marine Commandos, rose to Captain. Tragically taken from him years later in outrageously cruel circumstances.

  All he had left now apart from this wad of cellulose prints was grandson Christopher, his life blighted by the same cruel slash of fate that had snatched away a son and father. Henry loved him, was proud of him, was frightened for him.

  At the very bottom of the box, wrapped in oil cloth, was his old service revolver, the big Webley .455. Illegal for him to still have yes, but it had been a part of him for so long, had never let him down.

  He stroked the blue-black gun-metal with a blunt, strong finger as if petting a favourite pet before pulling the cloth back over it. Slowly, reluctantly he replaced every thing back into the stout, polished wood box, beret folded on top, and reverently placed his treasures back into the wardrobe with a silent prayer that the curse on his family would depart and leave him in peace to live out his days in quiet serenity.

  The loud knocking on his street door made him jolt in surprise. Chris had his own key so who else could claim the right to bang at his door in such a demanding manner?

  As he descended the stairs, another impatient tattoo rattled the house. Opening his front door, an admonishment on his lips, a clutch of concern gripped at his chest at the sight of two uniformed constables and a plain clothed detective in a shabby suit on his doorstep.

  "Henry Carter?" The detective spoke with an effected, world weary tone, briefly flashing his warrant card, his hand moving faster than a humming bird's wing.

  "That is me yes. What do you want?" Had they come for Chris again? This was harassment.

  "I am Detective Constable Morgan. Can we come in please?"

  "Why, are you getting cold out there?"

  "It is a rather important matter - sir."

  "Best get it out quick then because I am getting cold with this bloody door open."

  The detective's expression darkened as he spoke now in an officious drone. "We have received a complaint Mr. Carter."

  "I don't doubt that you get plenty of those young man. Comes with the job doesn't it? Defenders of the peace?"

  "Against you Mr. Carter."

  "Is that so? Can't think why."

  "You had a telephone conversation this morning with a Ms. Lucy Lever, current affairs journalist on the Anglian Chronical?"

  "In a manner of speaking yes."

  "It is the manner of your speech that is the object of the complaint sir."

  Henry frowned, agitation creeping into his own voice now. "I had a private conversation with the young lady, expressing my own complaints, remonstrating with her the scandalous contents of an article she wrote in this morning's edition. Have you read it officer?"

  "No sir, that is irrelevant. The nature of her complaint is the racist language used by you."

  "Excuse me, 'racist'?"

  "Correct. We have been supplied with a tape recording so there is no doubt."

  "Be more specific young man will you? I was rather angry at the time and didn't think to take notes, though I gather Ms. Lever had thought to record our conversation with purpose aforethought."

  "You referred to certain members of this community that you encountered yesterday as, I quote," He consulted a notepad in his hand, " 'a bunch of Paki thugs and camel shaggers'. That is a very offensive statement Mr. Carter."

  "Well I wasn't feeling particularly friendly towards the little shites or Ms. Lever if it comes to that. In fact, I was rather offended myself. So what's the problem?"

  "The problem Mr. Carter is that you have committed a crime. I am here to notify you that my superiors are actively considering whether to charge you for your outburst." In an absurdly formal move, he leaned forward and pushed a crisp white envelope into Henry Carter's hand.

  "Crime? Are you pulling my leg?" Henry scanned the faces of the other two policemen for some indication of a bluff at least but who maintained bland expressions, focussing on nowhere in particular.

  "Racist Hate Crime sir. Derogative remarks on another person's disability, gender-identity, race, religion or sexual orientation is illegal."

  "Have you been drinking officer?" Henry was genuinely amazed.

  "No sir, that is the law."

  "Perhaps you do not know this, but Thuggees were a cult of murderers on the Indian sub-continent, which included the present-day Pakistan, many years ago, who made a habit of waylaying passing travellers to rob and strangle them. Hence the English term of 'thug'. Yesterday our parade was attacked by the worthy descendants of those de
lightful gentlemen as we were about to pass by, in an effort to strangle our act of commemoration and to steal our right of expression."

  "Mr. Carter, I do not need a history lesson." The detective was looking ruffled and embarrassed in front of his colleagues who were secretly grinning at his back now.

  "Also it is a well founded suspicion that lonely Bedouin tribesmen wandering vast stretches of desert, found some comfort in … "

  "Mr. Carter!" Morgan held up his hand as if back on point duty. "You have clearly abused a minority community in this town who were simply exercising their right to freedom of speech. That cannot be allowed."

  "What about my freedom of speech? Or does that not apply to the indigenous population of this green and pleasant land? And since when did freedom of speech encompass the threat to behead non-believers or do we have an embarrassing majority of Christians?"

  "We have to make reasonable allowances for these peoples' sensibilities. Protect the vulnerable and weak amongst us!" The policemen was beginning to look distinctly aggressive.

  Henry Carter jabbed a forefinger into his narrow chest, his own frustration exploding. "So I, an eighty-nine years old man, am not vulnerable and weak? You come round to my house with your pair of dancing storm-troopers there with your mealy-mouthed apologist clap-trap for politically correct censorship, and threaten me for simply speaking my mind!

  "Get off my property right now sun-shine. This is England, not Russia!"

  Despite his age, Henry Carter was a big man looking very ferocious. They got off of his property right then.

  ******

  ELEVEN

  Early evening gripped Holtingham like a black velvet glove. There was a sharp nip in the air that suggested a possible overnight frost. Chris hoped that his grandfather had lit a fire in the lounge at least. Christ it was warmer in prison than in this little house.

  A sudden thought occurred, now that he was enriched from his late parents estate he could have central heating installed for grandpa. Radiators in every room, limitless hot water. He could even have all the pipe-work and loft insulated, have that foam injected into the outside walls. At his age grandpa needed such comfort.