by R. Jay
"Yeah, I'm sorry, I did not mean to imply anything like that. You have been a good friend of the UA-F. Now we are at the beck and call of the Brotherhood. With our help your cause will spread across this country like wild-fire. Trust me, trust Kamal Khan. Together we will write history Yasir … "
"Okay, okay. I will call you when I can get back up there. Goodnight my friend."
With a sigh, Benny Mann cut off the phone call, gazed wistfully at the loaded syringe balanced on top of the raggedy cushion beside him that would have to wait a little longer. Though frustrated at the need to be back in London, he needed to sign on the jobless register each week to ensure receiving his benefits, his own rhetoric had built an excitement within him.
He had groomed Yasir Davi for years, spotted potential in the young fire-brand law student and helped him on his way wherever he could. In turn, as Davi's career and status bloomed, he had duly reversed that patronage, nursing the UA-F's profile as a campaigning group for ethnic integration and rights. Thus ensuring powerful friends for Benny Mann from across the political spectrum, mealy mouthed politicians scrambling over one another to prove their PC credentials. He had blithely granted the UA-F public money from the Ethic Development Fund that he controlled.
Yet despite his close association with him over many years, Yasir Davi never truly trusted Benny Mann. Nobody who really knew him could. The scraggy left-wing protagonist over the years had evolved into a master of manipulation. Leaching from others the means to pursue illogical, insidious dreams of mayhem.
Time was that power-crazed union bosses were fertile ground for radical agendas, but they had long since been brutally beaten down into a state of cowered sulking by Maggie Thatcher, their members wantonly stripped of their honourable livelihoods and security.
Now the new rock n' roll of protest was the massively inflated sensitivities of the ethnic and sexually disorientated agitators. One small pointless victory that Benny had engineered was the prosecution and financial ruin of a hotelier who had ejected a pair of homosexuals from his establishment for their flagrant exhibitionism in front of his appalled guests; a stand for decency which the law now chose to brand as homophobic prejudice.
But the mother-lode was ethnic confrontation. No situation too small, dubious, or imaginary to be prodded and inflamed. Islamic pretensions in England under the hands of rabid radicals like Kamal Khan promised the mother of all battles.
***
Grandpa was preparing to attend yet another wake at the Legion Club, another evening of beer and stoicism.
"Seems like they're going down faster than at the Somme." He had muttered to Chris as he buffed up his best black shoes with spit and polish. "I suppose it is the winter that hurries things along a bit."
The latest dearest departed was Wally, an ex-Desert Rat, another piece of history gone underground in some corner of an English field that may not forever be England.
It was only after the old soldier had left, marching off along wintry streets, shoulders back, arms swinging, that Chris realised that apart from grandpa's bacon sandwich the other night, he hadn't really cooked anything since his teen years. Couldn't get onto the kitchen detail inside, a prime little number reserved for toady trustees, not for cop-killers.
Too hungry for burnt or undercooked attempts at the culinary art, he opted to go out and pay someone else to clash the pans. Agitatedly he cruised up and down the High Street restaurant shopping, couldn't see anything he really fancied. Chinese, Indian, Thai, Greek; the whole world could happily dine in Holtingham it seemed but where did the old pie and mash café go? The workman's café in Market Square specialised in fry-up only and was closed that time of night. The George and Dragon, well, he'd sampled their efforts at catering yesterday, thought he'd give it a miss.
Deciding that the Chinese was as traditional 'British' food as he was going to find, assuming the chicken had started out in life with feathers and a beak and not wearing a collar with 'Fido' written on it, he turned around to walk back the way he'd come.
A dull time beat between his eyes as he faced into a chill breeze that was not helped by church bells instantly beginning to ring over the town, incessantly clanging in an uncoordinated racket. Were there services this time on a Tuesday night? He couldn't recall there ever being so when he was young. Church of England stalwarts were Sunday morning people; Christenings, weddings and funerals apart. Just as suddenly the racket ceased a few minutes before he reached the red and gold frontage of the Hong-Kong Palace, made more garish by a festoon of coloured lights draped across it.
As he entered the candle-lit interior that he suspected was a ruse to prevent too close inspection of the food, a sudden blaring of a police siren rattled the windows as a traffic car skewered an urgent path through late evening traffic. Electronic wailing and revolving blue light bounced off of storefronts to either side until with protesting tyres it swung wildly wide into Church Road.
For Chris the drama induced a brief illogical panic and flash-back; flashing light, a shock of impact, the horror. Swallowing hard, he stepped gingerly back out onto the pavement, watched the tail lights disappear, half wondering if this could be a surreal over-reaction to complaints over the church bells.
"Blimey, those bell ringers do need the practise though." He muttered to himself just as an ambulance erupted from the little two bay station at the far end of the High Street, its lights and noisy two tones competing with the police car's. Along with other pedestrians out and about, he watched as the 'meat-wagon' slewed into Church Road also, hard on the back bumper of the squad car. Already unsettled by bad memories, Chris felt an unease seeping through his bowels. Turning away from the eatery entrance with its fake red lacquer and harsh lighting, he crossed the road and hurried to follow the emergency vehicles which now were ominously silent.
Both police car and ambulance were stationary outside St. Athelstan Church, their crews running through the lych gate and on up the stone flag path. Christ, for whom had the bell tolled here?
He was stopped at the church door, a magnificent studded oak affair, by a beat Bobby he hadn't seen before, who loomed out of the shadow of the church porch, presumably the first uniform on the scene.
"Can't go in there sir." He held out a restraining hand, eyeing with distaste over Chris's shoulder a growing stream of towns-people hurrying towards the church from all directions.
"How do you know that I haven't come to pray? God's house is open to all I'm told."
"Well if that's the case then I suggest that you do it outside in the street for now, like them bloody Muslims up the road do sometimes. And while you are about it, put in a few words for the vicar, poor sod."
"The vicar, Lionel?"
"Yep. Just got himself done over well and truly. Punched and kicked to within an inch of his life right in front of the alter. God ain't watching over his flock tonight that's for sure."
"He managed to phone you though."
"Kind of. It was the church bells did that. He managed to crawl into the belfry and cling onto some bell ropes, cause that racket. I was nearby and got here just in time to see the bunch of fuckers responsible climbing over the graveyard wall at the back. Doubt if we'll catch them now, hands are full in there."
"Who were they?" Chris had a growing suspicion at the back of his mind.
"You tell me." The policeman sniffed, suddenly uncomfortable with his own candid conversation. "They had balaclavas and hoods on. I could make an educated guess alright, but that'd be more than my job's worth mate in this enlightened age."
Chris exchanged a meaningful stare with him, his throat dry from acidic anger welling up from his gut. At which point the big door swung inward where low lights framed a burly paramedic manoeuvring a wheelchair, occupied by the seriously battered vicar.
He was securely strapped in and had bandages wrapped around his head that failed to cover vibrant bruising around his eyes, blood still oozed from a split lip and cotton wads pushed up his nose. He recognised Chris as h
e was wheeled slowly through the gathering crowd, made a feeble effort to wave his hand in greeting.
"Mr. Carter, what a terrible business. I caught them outside in the process of their mischief. They chased me into the church." He called hurriedly over his shoulder as he was taken away. I'm so sorry - your parents - the others - couldn't stop them."
Then he was gone, being loaded into the back doors of the ambulance that spilled radio chatter out into the cold night. The patrol car crew followed, grim faced, paused to chatter with their colleague with the pointy hat.
"He'll live. Feel it in the morning though, for a few mornings by the look of it. If you get a chance, have a dekko at the damage outside will you Brian? We're off on another call. Seems the same crowd have knocked in some stained glass windows at the Catholic Church, and a petrol bomb has been lobbed into the lobby of that little synagogue behind the Town Hall. Busy night all round."
"Yes, for someone." Brian conceded enigmatically.
Briskly they were off, tossing belated baleful glares at Chris who had obviously registered somewhere on their radar.
"Jesus!" The Bobby pulled the church door shut, locked it with an oversized key, pocketed that. "Fucking Armageddon ain't it?"
But Chris had hardly heard him, had turned away, hurried around to the side of the church - 'I'm sorry - your parents - the damage outside'.
Street lamps threw enough light from the roadway to confirm the worst of scenarios. Most of that section of the graveyard had been vandalised with ferocious intent, including amongst all the others, the headstone that remained the only physical presence of his parents. Chunks of the polished black granite, some with portions of the gold, engraved inscription, were scattered across the surrounding mown grass. Some pieces had reached as far as the perimeter path with the ferocity of the attack.
Chris stood trembling, hollow eyed amid the carnage, his breath pumping out in big gulps, wafting into the dark night air as white plumes. He knew that this was not an attack on his family in particular. Just about every tombstone on that side of the church had been either destroyed or kicked over; a scene of callous wickedness.
His attention snapped onto swift slashes of green aerosol paint on St. Athelstan's side wall, picked out vividly by the strong beam of the police constable's torch. 'INFIDELS'.
A storm of rage boiled out of him as he gave out a roar that tore the crisp air , frightening the policeman standing behind him and other distressed relatives picking their own way through the defiled graves of their loved ones. He spun on his heel on the damp grass, barging past anyone in his way, his face contorted with violent urges. As he exited the gateway, his new mobile phone, bought that day as they had swept the High Street clean of yellow posters, warbled an annoyingly insistent tune in his pocket.
Withdrawing it, he managed to hit the right button, put it to his ear. "Who's that?" He snapped.
"Me, Barry. Where are you kiddo'?"
"I'm at the church. They've done the vicar over now an … "
"Yeah we heard."
"We?"
"Most of the old crowd. The Catholic church was attacked too. The Ryan's are looking very mean I can tell you. Look Chris get yourself over to the Rugby clubhouse, everybody has met up here. There's a really ugly mood about. Some of the lads are all tooled up, itching for a bundle with that scum."
"They've done my parents' gravestone Barry. Broken it to a thousand pieces, and all the others. I need to go and smack some bastard good and proper myself right now."
"'Course Chris, of course. But don't go charging in anywhere like the Lone Ranger. Get yourself down here like I said. Bloody 'Invaders'? We have to protect our own families and homes, and the town. The police don't want to do it, then we will. This shit can't go any further.
"We're moving out soon, gonna' march along the High Street, pay that Mosque a little visit. There are a few cunts hiding in there getting right out of hand. Let's drag 'em out and run them out of town, our town!
"This is war mate!"
******
THIRTEEN
Chris strode purposefully back along the High Street, brain abuzz with what was about to go down, the hot blood of violent confrontation fizzing through his arteries. Too preoccupied he stepped into the road, barely aware of the angry car horn as he crossed over to the opposite side, head down, relishing images of overdue retribution.
Shrill laughter rattled the plate glass window of the Thai' restaurant as he passed it by, distracting him from pleasant thoughts. A group of young unknowns, arrogance in their posture, full of themselves, occupied a table near the window with a panoramic view of the main road. Despite animated, loud, overlapping group conversation, they plainly had a part of their collective attention fixed on the street outside for anything that might occur. Chris slid under their communal surveillance, a lone figure of no apparent interest, He heard the name 'Lucy' bubble to the surface of the confusion of chatter, saw the cameras pushed under the table, ready to be snatched up to record and video.
What were the press doing here so soon? News of that evening's events could have barely reached their respective offices or mobiles yet. Why here anyway, eating heartburn food and drinking Yak-piss wine when they should be at the church making a nuisance of themselves or at least at the small cottage hospital outside of town badgering the staff for details of injury and pictures of the vicar's battered features.
Clearly there was little interest there for them. From the brief sighting he had of them, they were clearly waiting, had been for some time, for the Big Event. Friends around a restaurant table, rivals out on the streets, each ready and poised to move at a moment's notice.
Sudden caution dampened his bullish mood, the chill air more noticeable as he passed on by out of the pool of light that spilled out onto the pavement. By contrast, the mosque almost opposite, was shuttered and silent, dark and brooding, could have been an abandoned building. Except that he knew that at least a couple of dozen young men resided there in the upper rooms that once had housed the hotel's guests.
The wariness that crawled all over him now germinated into alarm when he turned into Market Square and spotted a half dozen police personnel carriers parked up in the darkest corner. Riot squad vehicles with drop-down wire mesh windscreen guards and barred side windows. As he got closer, walked by, the hairs on his neck prickled with nervous reaction, uncomfortably aware of many pairs of eyes watching him from the dark interiors, whether with suspicion or boredom he couldn't tell.
Fifty or more policemen drafted in, no doubt from Cambridge or Peterborough, fully decked out in protective gear; helmets and visors, flame resistant overalls, armed with long batons and Perspex shields gripped at the ready. Ready for what?
The answer hit him in the face like an interview room back-hander. It was all a set-up. The malicious and inexplicable wave of racial attacks that evening had been committed under somebody's order, to provoke the folk of Holtingham into violent response. The young men he was en-route to join at the rugby clubhouse in just such a venture.
Had they but known it , the police planning was laughable in that their intention was obviously to remain unseen until trouble flared, rather than prevent such a thing, then to leap from their vehicles and race into the High Street to confront 'White Supremists' in action, in full view of a sympathetic and collaborating media. How were they to know that the 'troublemakers' that they lay in wait for, would have to approach from behind them, spilling out from the municipal playing fields along a lane leading out of town.
Chris avoided any eye contact through the darkened windows, just a solitary citizen on his way home, but could not resist a sidelong glance at the headless bronze soldier, gleaming in the white moonlight. Suppressed anger choked in his airway which erupted from him as a dry cough. He knew he had to hurry now, Barry was not one to exaggerate the mood about to boil over any moment, the frustrations that would propel the lads down that dark road and run them smack into the forces of selective law and order.
He may have been the 'local hero' of the moment, But Chris Carter felt himself in danger of being trampled underfoot as he physically blocked the rugby clubhouse door to an impatient onrush of his own pals chanting 'lets go get the little bastards!'.
Even Barry looked aggressively perplexed as Chris held up a restraining hand against his chest, his other flapping up and down in a calming motion.
"What's occurring Chris? We wait for you , now you want to bottle it?"
The others crowding around the pair of them grunted agreement. Chris's eyes flared with burning ire for a nano-second.
"You go ahead if you must. But I wouldn't be a friend if I didn't warn you what you're getting into."
"Those Paki' cunts don't worry us none!" Ned Ryan was straight talking if nothing else."
"'Course not Ned. But what about van loads of plod hidden in Market Square, all dolled up in riot gear just waiting to pounce on whoever turns out for a brawl. They've even got the press at the ready. We've been set up lads."
"You're joking!"
"No I'm not. Think about it. How provocative can you get smashing up churches and War Memorials? Of course there will be a backlash and I'm more than keen to get out there and stamp on a few rag-heads. Which is just what somebody is trying to incite us to do. Wicked white boys at it again."
The ten agitated young men grouped around him visibly deflated in front of his eyes.
"Can't just let them get away with all this, trashing our town, taking the piss." Ned Ryan was shorter and bulkier than his brother, twice as nasty when his blood was up.
Chris shut the door firmly behind him. "I didn't say that we do nothing. But you are all family men, got responsibilities, can't afford to get done for street fighting. I certainly can't either. I'm out on licence. Give the law half a chance and I'm banged up for the rest of my natural. So let's not go charging out there performing like organ monkeys dancing to somebody else's tune."
"So what then?" Barry looked stricken at the lack of action.