by R. Jay
Jihad had been declared, a furious Kamal Khan, arms raised, his three fingered hand hooked like an eagles claw, had declared it so. Revenge for the humiliation that had been visited upon them that Sunday morning, chased back into the mosque like naughty children, a catalyst rather than the cause. A great strike against the Crusaders was long planned, one that would mortally wound this nation of Infidels.
Now the 'Chosen Ones' from the ranks of 'The Invaders' were to train as killers, the thrusting spears who would soon strike the killing blow. But he was tired, worn weary by long days scuttling up and down wet, barren hills, crouching in ice-cold, gurgling streams, brandishing pathetic, child-like replicas of guns they had yet to fire. They had chased each other about the countryside, across fields, through woods, practising at being soldiers killing a line of straw effigies in a field.
Tomorrow they were to receive instruction from Kamal Khan himself, in bomb making; how to pack nails, ball-bearings and scrap pieces of metal around slabs of explosives; hide them in culverts, waste bins, rucksacks; insert such explosive devices into canvas vests with special pockets sewn in and conceal them beneath loose fitting traditional robes; how to connect a detonation button, run the wires across your chest, down the inside of your sleeve to within easy reach of your sweating, trembling hand; be taught the mantra, 'it is my duty to die for Allah, to go to him with the blood of many Infidels at my feet, on my robes, splashed on my face'.
Abu Sharif did not want to kill anyone, did not want to die and claim his virgins in Paradise. He was a tortured and worried man indeed.
******
FIFTEEN
"The sun shines on the righteous my son!"
Chris Carter grinned back nodding his agreement with the old lady standing kerb-side below him with her half filled shopping trolley, waving sweetly at the column of marchers meandering slowly through the town centre.
Indeed the day was proving to be a sunny success after all the recent rain and tribulations Holtingham had endured. Along with the twenty or so English Front Line stalwarts walking proudly beside and behind the War Horse that crept forward with a slow rumble of big engine, were a hundred or more of the less inhibited townsfolk. Old, young with children in tow, had joined the procession heading for the Town Hall in Market Square. Some carried banners and small home made notices demanding police action to curb the escalating attacks on their town.
Yet the mood was light-hearted, noisily cheerful in the unseasonal warmth, imbibing the whole affair with a quaint carnival atmosphere. Chris sat happily at the wheel of the Landrover that bore a huge flag of St. George above the cab, Union Jack bunting stretched across its length and width flapping and snapping in a sudden breeze. Taped music flowed from loudspeakers affixed at the four corners of the roof, an endless loop of Land Of Hope and Glory, Rule Britannia and Jerusalem interspersed with easy on the ear melodies. Middle England at its best.
To add to the atmosphere, a horseman rode alongside dressed in full Crusader armour, the light tin-plate replica glowing in the sunlight. Exuberantly he waved a stage sword over his helmet plumes, orchestrating the crowd as they sang along with the patriotic songs as if they were all at the Last Night of the Proms.
The sweet bonus on the day's success for Chris, was the sight in his large rear-view mirror of grandpa amongst the marchers, as erect as a parade ground flag-pole, arms swinging with military precision, surrounded by friends and neighbours.
Then with a flutter of alarm he braked sharply as a uniformed Inspector of police stepped out suddenly from the crowded pavement, hand imperiously held high halting the parade, and walked around to the lowered driver's window that Chris nonchalantly leant out of.
"Good morning sir, can you tell me who gave you permission to march on the public highway in this fashion?"
Chris looked down at him with an expression of innocent confusion. "I'm sorry, does anyone need permission to walk through the town they live and were born in?"
"I am afraid that you do. Your actions are holding up the traffic and creating a public nuisance. You need the Chief Constable's permission to do that. I shall have to ask you to disperse immediately."
Chris leaned further out of the cab peering back at the snaking line of people, now showing signs of dissent and agitation at the hold-up. Somebody in the watching crowd bounced an empty MacDonald's cardboard cup off of the back of the policeman's head to underline the growing mood .
"Well I should warn you Inspector that if you deny us free passage as free-born Englishmen and women, my friends will sit down in the roadway until allowed to proceed. Unless you have van-loads of riot squads tucked away in Market Square to come and restrain and remove a sizeable portion of this town's population then go ahead. Maybe order a baton charge, make loose with some pepper spray, Taser a few of these old 'uns and inject a bit of fizz into them. You could have your very own Peterloo Massacre if you are really that ambitious, or reckless as the case may prove.
"Otherwise I suggest that you let us be on our way, and in just a few minutes we will be tucked away outside the Town Hall as arranged with the democratically elected Mayor and his colleagues.
"It is up to you sunshine."
He smiled brightly at the Inspector, head cocked slightly askew, who glared ferociously back at him, a red tide of fury seeping up his neck from under a tight white collar.
"If you wish to proceed then do so at your own risk … Mister Carter." He hissed in frustration, stepping back onto the pavement with a curt nod and a twitch of his hand for them to continue.
Whether by plan or impromptu reaction Chris could not say, but as he right wheeled them into Market Street and the Square, two police traffic cars pulled across the junction behind them effectively closing the road. As they wound around the square in a crocodile line two factors registered with him: one, the Mayor and dignitaries were not in evidence on the Town Hall steps as arranged; two, a couple of inter-city coaches had been parked up and blocking the lane leading out of town towards the playing fields. Effectively their procession had been 'Ketttled' into Market Square.
With the column now wrapped around and divided by the War Memorial the exit doors of both coaches opened simultaneously, folding back with an aggressive loud hiss. Dozens of young men and some girls leapt down onto the roadway with eager purpose, probably students, many dressed in retro, activist 70's garb; denim, long hair and some beards. Beads, nose rings, head-bands and Che Guevara T-shirts popular adornments, if not done to death decades past.
A number of them dragged banners and placards from the coaches' luggage lockers, distributing them among the swelling mob, already erupting with a barrage of cat-calls and dire threats if the shaken fists were anything to go by. A forest of boards sprouted above their tousled heads:
'UA-F AGAINST FASCISM'
'EFL -NAZI SCUM'
'DOWN WITH RACISTS AND BIGOTS' .
Chris halted the Landrover again, groaning with disbelief as the opposition protest surged forward with an obviously aggressive intent. Déjà vu swept over most of the home crowd who had watched the Remembrance Day altercation. This just couldn't be happening again. Chris had no intention of deliberately leading these townspeople into another violent confrontation. Quickly looking around, he was shocked to discover that the police presence had vanished leaving just their vehicles obstructing a swift escape route and no law enforcement body to check the momentum of these out of town troublemakers, almost certainly from London. Who were the UA-F anyway?
The Ryan brothers and the other members had reacted immediately, powering forward, forming the English Front Line to oppose the enemy head-on. Some took the time to frantically wave back their more peaceful companions and neighbours who had turned out that pleasant Saturday morning, to lodge and record their protest and displeasure in a peaceful and democratic manner. Yet now a battle had commenced.
Chris pressed hard on the horn, hoping to halt the advance and to alert the police to a conflict that his group would surely get the blam
e for. The stark truth had already dawned that the EFL and supporters had walked into a trap of sorts with official blessing.
But the blood was up now. The lads were in no mood to endure more aggravation from marauding outsiders. Like a medieval battle the front lines mashed against one another at the foot of the War Memorial. Punches flew, boots lashed out, placards used as offensive weapons. Accepting the reality, Chris was out of the War Horse launching himself across the cobbles to the heart of the conflict. No option now than to muck in and see off these grimy looking bastards.
The excitable presence of news photographers and TV cameras that had sprung from parked vans, confirmed any suspicion that another set-up had been planned, this time with spectacular success.
One of the opposition, a tall skinny youth with bright ginger hair and milky white arms protruding from a leather jerkin which bore a large badge bearing the letters, 'EFL', sought out and posed in front of eager cameramen. Raising his right bony fist in a Nazi salute he screamed out, "Kill the blacks, no wogs, we hate fucking Muslims!"
His spectacular performance however false and contrived would no doubt sparkle as a quick-fit news-clip for muck spreading media outlets, where slick delivery and practised indignation ruled the argument.
Chris veered off in his direction, vague thoughts of remonstrating before the cameras that this shit was not one of theirs, but just as quickly as he had appeared the lad disappeared back into the crowd, whooping with hilarity at the stunt he'd just pulled.
A petrol bomb shattered on the cobbles, flames racing through and around shoes and boots, licking up legs. A girl in a long granny frock, Caribbean style tresses and face pierced with gold hoops screamed, desperately, beating at the smouldering hem of her garment. Ned Ryan had a snarling, long haired UA-F 'warrior' trapped in an iron headlock, pummelling his face and neck with enraged anger.
Chris waylaid another, apparently intent on charging the gentlefolk huddling at the rear of the War Horse with open mouthed horror at the mayhem. Grabbing the lapels of his dirty denim jacket, also sporting a phony EFL badge, he head butted him until his legs wobbled and he sank down onto all fours like a whipped dog, blood and snot hanging in curtains from his re-modelled nose.
A raised arm threw a house-brick at the windscreen of the Landrover which merely bounced off, but still Chris plunged into the wrestling mob to nail the bastard until the chopping edge of a placard struck him in the exact same place as the police baton had just six days before. He swerved to one side, his vision clouding with black whorls, groggy but still on his feet, determined not to slide to the ground himself. His flailing hands found the cold stone rim of a Victorian horse trough to the side of the square, thankful for the nostalgic by-law that forbade its removal.
The clamour of frantic fighting ebbed and flowed all around him as he vaguely registered the clatter of shod horse-hooves, wondering, had mounted police come to break up the near riot? A bemused realisation came to him as he looked around to see that the mounted 'Crusader' had charged to his rescue, had snatched away the placard that was raised to hit him again, and was verily turning the punishment onto the attacker himself.
A hand gripped Chris's shoulder, squeezing hard enough to gain his attention through a fog of pain, but thankfully no blood this time. He turned his head to stare dully back at the face of Barry Wells, fear and distress writ large upon it.
"Chris, can you hear me mate? Speak to me."
He nodded slowly, the slight movement ripping a sharp pain through his head.
Barry pushed his face closer. "Grandpa needs you. It's serious, looks like he's had a heart attack!"
***
He had more tubes and cabling channelling in and out of him than the London Underground. Chris Carter sat still and quiet at grandpa's bedside, hands grasping at each other in his lap as he prayed fervently to a God he had forsaken for many years.
Henry Carter, tucked tightly under crisp white sheets and plugged into a bank of monitors, showed even less signs of life. There was barely any indication of his breathing, the big chest under the flimsy hospital gown as solid and stationary as the Heli-pad outside that they had brought him in by. Frantic Paramedics and hyper Crash-Teams had brought him back from the abyss. Now, only the quietly bleeping and humming electronic gear in that little side room, gave any promise of life.
Chris, refusing any treatment to his head wound, had been roundly scolded by an Angel in starched uniform. "What were you doing involving an old man like that in a street-fight?" The Sister had demanded, lips drawn tight across small white teeth, with seething disapproval.
Chris could only shake his head miserably, igniting fresh pain. "It was only meant to be a small protest march." He protested mildly, not in the mood to justify or argue right now.
The nurse had merely given him an old fashioned look that would have had the Victoria and Albert Museum in a swoon. The television news report in the ward's common room made him out a liar. Film footage had captured the mass brawl that rolled across Market Square, zooming in on the prone, tragic figure of his grandfather slumped down onto the cobbles like a fallen hero, the glint of medal metal askew across his chest.
One small and peculiar surprise for Chris on his hurried arrival at the A&E department was the shocked reaction of the two uniformed policeman who had pulled him on his first day home. It was they who had attended grandpa with coronary resuscitation until the Paramedics had arrived.
"Who are these bloody UA-F?" He had demanded of them on a second visit that afternoon.
The sergeant merely shrugged his shoulders. "Bloody animals!" He spat. "Someone could easily have gotten killed." He looked carefully over at grandpa on his bed. "Nearly was." He grunted.
The nurse returned, shooed off the constabulary before laying a conciliatory firm hand on Chris's slumped shoulder. "Hey, it's time that you made yourself scarce for a while young man. You've been cluttering up this place all afternoon and it's Doctor's rounds soon.
"Mr. Carter could well be out of it for some considerable time yet. Go home, eat, get some sleep." She noticed a fresh seepage of blood at the back of his head. "And you might want to get that wound seen to before you go."
Chris rose, leaned across, stroked the hairs on the back of grandpa's hand. "You'll phone if … ?"
"We'll phone. Now be off with you."
***
The sun had exhausted itself and crept back behind grey clouds for a rest by the time he had negotiated a warren of corridors and staircases in the hospital block and stepped out into the get-rich-quick car park facility. One small comfort over the copious amounts of money he'd feed the greedy ticket machine was that the War Horse easily occupied two of the mean parking spaces. Twenty quid didn't go far in this land of care for the sick and dying.
A car door slammed hurriedly behind him and he heard the slapping soles of running feet on tarmac. Turning his head too quickly in alarm, he saw a young woman chasing him down. He slowed his own pace, no point in fleeing from the press, they'd only make something up anyway if you didn't speak with them.
"Mr. Carter, er, Chris isn't it?" She stood close enough for him to feel the puffs of her laboured breath on his face, a short slight figure of a girl with short blond hair. "How is your grandfather Henry? I do hope that he'll be okay." She smiled sweetly, gazing up into his eyes with earnest concern.
"Since when did you ever give a flying fuck about other people Miss Lever?" He growled irritably. Grandpa had described her to a tee. "You're partly the cause for him being here. He's not been too well since you sicked the thought police onto him."
Her composed concern slipped a little as she stepped back into her own little space. "You seemed to have regained your aggression at the world rather quickly Mr. Carter. Perhaps the parole board got it wrong. Do you see me as 'the enemy'?"
"You are no friend, I know that much you little bitch. Read you're article, fond of 'chic-lit' are you?"
"I just report the reality mister." She snarled back, sugar
and spice back in the packet. A pair of startled hospital staff in green scrubs edged past with curious looks back at them. "Flag waving Fascists like you and your comrades have to be outed."
Chris stared at her twisted, doll like features with exasperation. "We are merely local people trying to protect what is ours."
She cackled triumphantly for the benefit of the concealed digital recorder. "Just my point. A paramilitary mob out to attack anybody you deem to be foreign. Isn't that about the truth of it?"
"Bollocks!"
"You marched in the street with the rest of your storm-troopers, intimidating vulnerable people."
"You mean those families with kids? They can hardly be accused of being storm-troopers. Just local citizens demanding that the police and politicians get up off of their fat arses and do their job. Hardly world domination is it?"
"To support your Xenophobic ideals you mean? Flag waving, jingoistic songs?"
"Are you mad? The flag of St. George is the flag of England and Elgar is hardly Wagner: Scotsmen wear the kilt singing 'Scotland the Brave'; Welshmen wave their silly leaks to whole choirs belting out 'Men of Harlech'; Irishmen sing 'Danny Boy' or 'Galway Bay' sobbing into their Guinness; But if an Englishman waves his flag and sings Land of Hope and Glory he is smeared as a far right thug, Nazi or Fascist.
"Can WE not be proud of our country too? What is it with you people?"
Shaking his head furiously despite the pain, Chris stomped off as Lucy Lever's mobile began to emit some Boy Band number. Benny Mann was calling. Slowly she returned to her car, phone clamped to her ear, all abuzz.
"Hello Benny."
"Hey babe, didn't my boys do well?" He chortled hoarsely, phlegm rattling in his airway.
"Yes dear, but don't forget the girls too."
"Would I ever forget girls?"
"Not while you have a working zip in your trousers you wouldn't. Do you want to hear some good news or some very good news?"