. . . . of Hope and Glory

by R. Jay

Benny Mann's bowels were beginning to curdle in the sobriety of daylight at the stark reality of kidnap and murder. His marching tune of anarchy was an erratic banging of a drum with no recognisable tune. Street marches, broken windows, chanting like wild haired banshees, yes that was the stuff of student protest; civil disobedience a socialist Utopia. The Blair-Peach killing and Broadwater Farm travesty he didn't like to dwell on.

  Killing was another matter entirely, not in his repertoire of mischief making. It dawned on him that perhaps this Islamic Jihad adventure was slipping out of his control. For the first time in his aimless life, Benny Mann the revolutionary was frightened of the consequences of his own actions.

  ***

  The caller at his door, was not who he was expecting. The bedraggled figure standing pensively on his doorstep was definitely not the carpet fitter come to measure up grandpa's bedroom. Chris, taken aback, stared warily out at the young Arabic man in loose traditional clothing, a worn leather satchel hanging at his side from a strap around his neck.

  "Who the fuck are you?" He growled after a silent moment of adjustment.

  "You are Mr. Christopher?" The other enquired in a thin, wavering, heavily accented voice.

  "I asked first sunshine." Chris eyed him cautiously still, watchful for any sudden moves involving knives or machetes, particularly towards the satchel. His grandfather had often recounted of his army days in the Middle East, of how many a young 'Tommy' had bought it with a curved blade between the ribs, a startled expression on their pale faces as they died.

  'Those wops are like greased monkeys. Literally. They'd slip into camp at night, stark, bullock naked, covered in animal fat; shiv a sentry, grab some supplies or a gun, then be off over the wall before anyone could get a bloody grip on them. Slippery little bastards, don't ever trust 'em lad.'

  "I am Abu Sharif. Sydique Sahni asked if I would come to see you."

  Chris's face twisted with shock and distrust. Despite Sid's origins he could never have associated him with this rabid looking 'camel jockey', straight out of the souks of Morocco or the Yemen, wherever.

  "See me? Why didn't he come himself? I've been looking for him for days. Why you, you ain't exactly an old friend of his are you?"

  The young Arab looked puzzled. "Sydique said that you would not believe me."

  "You've got that right Sabu."

  "No, Abu. He said to tell you, 'Hello White Boy, would you like a sandwich? You understand please?"

  "Kind of. Why you, you pop up out of a bottle somewhere?"

  The Arab's confusion showed in his delicate, almost girl like features. "'Proof of life', he said to tell you also. Have you not heard yet Mr. Christopher? About Sydique?"

  Cold fingers stroked the back of Chris's neck. "What about him? 'Proof of life'? Is Sid in trouble?" His voice now both anxious and threatening.

  Abu's expression turned fearful, not expecting to be the messenger who got shot. "We - they took Sydique. He has been a prisoner of 'The Invaders' for many days now. They have made demands of your government … "

  Chris exploded from the doorway lunging for the Arab, bunching the cloth of his gown in two fists. Pulling him in close his nose wrinkled at the smell of an unwashed body, damp cotton, indicative of somebody sleeping rough in unheated places.

  "Tell me fucker!"

  Abu was terrified, began to gabble in a high pitched pleading squeal. "Please sir, please Mr. Christopher. This is not of my doing. I am trying to help Sydique. I swear this to be true!"

  Chris held him out at arm's length. "You one of those bastards playing silly buggers about town?"

  Thin hands waved a denial. "No sir, I came here only looking for food, shelter. I had no money, no papers." He gasped desperately. "But that mosque is not a good place. The Imam is a bad man. He and other bad men are training 'The Chosen Ones' for a Holy war. He has driven away the true worshippers of Allah to pray in their own homes. Mohammed would weep at what is being done in his name sir."

  Chris relaxed his grip a little, looking up and down the street for signs of trickery, 'greased monkeys' hiding behind cars, garden hedges.

  "So just where do you come into all this Al Qaeda shit Abu, tell me?"

  The other was crying now, shame and self pity pouring from him. "We did those bad things in your town. We were made to attack your churches, your statue of the dead soldier. Then we were taken away after midnight to be trained as Jihadist fighters. Somewhere nobody would see or here us.

  "We went in the back of a big van and Sydique was tied up in a car that followed behind us. I was scared then. It was a long way, several hours. When we got there he was taken and put in a hut that pigs had lived in. We muslims are forbidden to eat pork. It was a deliberate insult to put him there because he had renounced The Faith."

  "A sty? They put Sid in a pig sty?"

  A real danger that Chris would beat Abu Sharif senseless right there on grandpa's front path hung in the balance. Eventually he shook off the impulse, shook the other man too, hissing threateningly through bared teeth.

  "That's a bloody week ago. Wednesday week. Why?"

  "They put your friend on trial for treason to Islam. Sharia law demands this, but I do not agree. He has chosen his own spiritual path so I pray for him instead."

  "But you are back now, are the others, is Sid here?"

  "No, no sir." Abu's distress increased. "I was not selected to be a 'Chosen One'. They said I was too much of a girl. That I could be their messenger boy instead. They gave me train tickets. I was told to go to Peter's Borrow yesterday and deliver a letter. Then I was to come back here and report back to Kamal Khan himself, with more letters to post later. But I do not want to go back there. I do not want to have anything more to do with all this badness. I think I will leave this town, find somewhere else that will give me shelter, a job.

  "But I went to see Sydique before I left and told him this. They had taken away his new leg and arm so he may not escape. By then it became my job to take his food, carry away his pail of shit. I told him I was not like the others, that I would not return there. He asked me then, to come and see you, tell you what has happened to him.

  "Now I go, find another place to give me shelter. Maybe, I go home. Without papers I cannot work, cannot live."

  Chris retightened his grip. "You ain't going anywhere yet pal. First you are coming with me to the police station, tell them all this. Then you are going to take me to him. Don't worry, I have friends who will come with us. We are not afraid of these 'Invaders'."

  Abu wriggled miserably. "You do not understand Mr. Christopher. The letter I delivered to Peters Borrow … "

  "Peterborough, a town north of here?"

  "Yes sir. That letter was for a lady writer of the papers. I took it to her office of the Chronical. Your policemen will know of this already, it told your government what is demanded of them. If they do not … " His eyes dipped suddenly, a knowledge too heavy to bear.

  Chris clicked his tongue dismissively. "Don't be too certain of that. I know this bitch you must have gone to. There is no guarantee that she has passed this on yet. There is nothing in the newspapers or on the television this morning. No, you will take me and my friends there after we tell the police.

  "Right, come on in while I get my things. And don't steal anything."

  Despite the desperation in Abu's eyes at the mention of the police, Chris pulled him into the hallway whilst he fetched his jacket and keys.

  ***

  The front reception of Holtingham police station was relatively quiet, this being a Wednesday morning, not a fitting time for the locals to go getting drunk and obnoxious just yet. They had weekends for that.

  A mildly miffed travelling salesman type had presented himself at the counter to produce driving documents. "I don't carry them in the car. Somebody breaks into the thing when I'm away working, then they'll know I'm not at home and break in there too."

  "Very possibly so sir. But you were still speeding when stopped by our patrol car
even without them." The desk sergeant obviously thought himself a bit of a wit.

  A young mother sat waiting on a bench against a green wall, her eight year old son glowering at the world alongside her. She had brought him into the station to be reprimanded for refusing to go to school. Tough love.

  Chris waved the unhappy looking Abu towards the bench to sit and wait. Good dog. He stood at the counter himself, twitching impatiently for the best part of ten minutes while the details of driving licence, insurance certificate, what your aunt Fanny had for tea, were duly noted laboriously into a computer. The policeman obviously had no inclination to let his foot tapping transgressor get back into his car outside in a hurry.

  When at last they were done, the paperwork was snatched back and shoved into an inside pocket as the salesman of the month contender stomped moodily away towards the glass exit doors.

  "Bloody waste of my time. I've got targets to meet!"

  "The fine will come in the post sir. Drive safely." The sergeant called after him cheerily. His attention switched to Chris, noticeably chilling.

  "And what can I do you for … sir?" He enquired pointedly.

  Chris pursed his lips, a little embarrassed now with the drama laced content of what he had come to report. Not so certain all of a sudden of its authenticity.

  "Well I've come to report a possible abduction."

  The desk sergeant laid down his pen that had been hovering over a notepad, rested his elbows on the countertop, stared at him searchingly.

  "Is that so Mr. Carter?"

  "I didn't give you my name." Chris pointed out.

  "You don't need to. You are quite a celebrity in some circles."

  Chris smothered a look of aggression, that wouldn't get anybody anywhere. "Are you going to listen to what I'm telling you sergeant or should I go higher?" He snapped, exasperated with this ingrained bad attitude where he was involved.

  "You haven't told me anything yet." The policeman countered waspishly.

  "Sydique Sahni. Thirty-three years of age. Currently a serving member of the Royal Marines, injured, on permanent sick leave for now. Been missing for a week. Information has come to light that he may have been taken by a terrorist group based here in Holtingham. Is that enough information for you to pick that pen back up and start to do your job?"

  The policeman didn't answer immediately, but picked up his pen that he held aloft between them, like a talisman to ward off an evil presence.

  Eventually he cleared his throat, looked directly back at Chris with a dour expression. "Lady already made out a missing persons report on a Mr. Sahni. The warden of Squires court, a responsible member of the community. That will be sufficient for us now. But thank you for your time."

  Chris slapped the counter top angrily, knew he was being taunted. "I bloody well know that. I sent her here on Monday. But now more serious details have come to light. The man has been taken forcibly from his home and is being threatened. Is that enough for you to at least fill in a fucking form!"

  "Please do not swear or shout in here Carter. We have a zero tolerance policy for unruly behaviour. Your temper has not served you best in the past has it? Also there is a lady and child over there whom you have rudely by-passed in the queue

  "Nevertheless, now where have you garnered this rather fanciful information from?"

  Chris cocked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bench behind. "Him over there. He is, or was, a member of the group that snatched Sydique a week ago. Now they are making threats against his well-being."

  The policeman flicked a glance over Chris's shoulder. "That is an eight years old boy who's turned school shy. I don't think that things have got that bad out on those streets just yet. This isn't Los Angeles."

  "Not him! Next to him, there, Abu Sharif … " Chris turned, pointing his finger, saw an empty end of bench which Abu had very reluctantly occupied a few minutes before. "Oh shit! Shit!"

  Chris ran for the street doors, had to find the Arab boy quickly, acutely conscious he'd had several minutes head start.

  "I did ask you to refrain from bad language sir." The smug sergeant called after him as Chris barged back out onto the High Street.

  ***

  Frantically Chris gunned the Landrover in different directions for several minutes walking distance from the station. 'I think I will leave this town … '

  He spotted him eventually on the A141 heading towards Wisbech and the Fens. A bitterly cold wind was ripping across the open flat fields without so much as a hedgerow for cover. A solitary pathetic figure stumbling but steadfast, along the unmade mud and grass verge that lined the busy trunk road, buffeted by the slip-stream of speeding lorries. One helpful driver's mate leaning out of the passenger window, "Oi! Lost your camel son?"

  Chris squealed the Landrover to a halt just in front of him, reached across the cab and threw open the door, blocking his progress. "Sabu, get the fuck in here!"

  The Arab stopped where he was, a stubborn look on his drained face. "It is Abu Mr. Christopher. No I will not come with you. I cannot talk to the police, they will arrest me and send me back."

  "Look, this country is full of bloody illegal immigrants the police don't bother with. Why should they get out of bed just for you? Now get the fuck in here before I break your skinny legs and throw you in."

  With great trepidation Abu Sharif climbed up onto the passenger seat alongside Chris, staring sulkily out of the windscreen.

  "Right." Chris lowered his voice, breathing hard with all the shouting. "Okay, the police are a no-go, savvy? But you are definitely going to help me and my friends find Sid, show us where to start looking."

  Abu reached for the door and pulled it closed. "I'll try Mr. Christopher, to help Sydique. But I don't think that I like you very much."

  ******

  TWENTY

  Despite being midweek, enough EFL members turned out to an urgent call by Chris, to congregate at their unofficial headquarters in the Holtingham Rugby Club bar. Nobby Clark was unnecessarily apologetic as he walked in the door last, bringing their total number to six, including Chris, and also a skinny looking Arab boy in loose robes.

  He stopped short in surprise as most of the others had. "What's Wee Willy Winkie doing here?" He changed subject quickly seeing a glint of annoyance in Chris's face. "Don't worry about the job Chris. My boys can handle it now without my being there. They've already let in the carpet fitter with his tape measure. Reckons he can do the business tomorrow. We'll be finished and out of there no prob's by then."

  Chris nodded vaguely, mind on other things, turned Abu Sharif around by the shoulder to face his assembled friends. "I'd like you to meet Abu here." He noted the thin coat of suspicion on their faces. "You can relax lads, he's on our side. More or less."

  "Then Gawd help us!" Alan Grundy, predictably nick-named Solomon or Sol', chortled.

  "I'm afraid the Almighty takes a back seat on this one." Chris answered grimly. "Apparently Sid's absence from amongst us is because that he's been kidnapped by that bunch calling themselves 'The Invaders' what've been causing all this grief in town."

  The general reaction was a stunned silence until Ned Ryan stabbed a thick hairy forefinger towards Abu. "So where does he fit in?" Faint menace in that simple question.

  "Abu here," Chris paused, searching for a delicate way to relay the facts. "was press-ganged into their number for a while until he got out and came back here. He was only in that mosque he says for bed and board until he gets on his feet. But there's more going on in there than yodelling on their knees five times a day.

  "According to Abu, they have a training camp for would-be terrorists, running around in the undergrowth pretending to shoot all us pale faces. They took off up there after doing the churches last week and took Sid with them. Sid asked Abu here to come and tell me about it.

  "I intend to go and find him double quick with Abu my Indian guide. Any of you willing and able I could do with all the help possible."

 
"I am Libyan Mr. Chris, not an Indian." Abu corrected him with an aggrieved air.

  "Well where is he then, Sid?" Barry Wells spoke for the first time, strangely subdued.

  "A long way from here." Abu stated gratified to have an input.

  "Oh that is fucking helpful. Narrows it down a bit." Rick Ryan put in.

  "We went north."

  "That's a start. Which road?" Nobby enquired encouragingly.

  "A green road."

  "'Scuse me son but they are black mostly."

  "'E's been watching the Wizard of Oz." Ricky Ryan muttered darkly, his patience already wearing thin.

  "Then we went on a red road, then more green roads." The young Arab continued doggedly.

  "He's talking road maps!" Barry blurted out.

  "Do you know where you finally ended up?" Chris gently probed, smothering a sigh.

  "Over a big white bridge to the land of the goats." Abu answered, looking inordinately pleased with himself now.

  "Is he taking the piss? Smack him one, loosen his memory up a bit, and a few teeth with some luck." Rick Ryan had had enough of this.

  Abu looked suitably alarmed. "No, it is there. There are smoky trains like in India and your black films." He insisted, a desperate edge to his voice as he eyed Rick glaring at him.

  "Must be on about steam trains." Nobby snapped his fingers. "One of those enthusiast set ups. All these anoraks buy up a few miles of redundant track and stations, do up a couple of old locomotives and shunt tourists up and down them. Took the kids on one when we were in Cornwall. Loads of them all over the country."

  "Right, someone get a bleeding road map." Chris felt the stirring of optimism at last.

  "Got one behind the bar." Ned piped up. "We often play away up North." He fetched a road atlas, laying it out flat on one of the bar tables as they all crowded round. Flicking through the pages he found the one with Holtingham at its lower edge. Slowly he traced a northerly route with his finger on random main roads having to turn the page once where at the top it encountered the wide River Humber.

  "Big white bridge?" Barry suggested. "The Humber Bridge? Makes sense. Turn the page again Ned, see what we've got above apart from Hull."

  "'Here be dragons', I imagine." Nobby ever helpful.

  Their virtual trip up the East coast continued via York and into the spreading expanse of the North Yorkshire Moors. A tingle of excitement spread amongst them. If anybody was going to operate a secret training camp in small, crowded England, one of the Moors was a natural choice of location.