by David Harley
‘How did you find them?’
‘Easy really – thanks to a loan from your old boss Alan, we bought some data. We accessed the voter files of those people most likely to support us, and sent them personalised messages on social media and by phone. Eighty per cent of those we contacted pledged support and gave donations, and half of them have turned up today. Now it’s up to you to show them they’re not wasting their time.’
Sam had booked the top floor of an old warehouse off Shoreditch High Street that had been converted into a pub, the Red Lion. After mingling with the crowd and thanking everyone he met for coming, Matt climbed on to a trestle table and Sam threw him a mike.
‘We are living here tonight the very first minutes of a movement that we hope will soon sweep across our country. Not a political party, but a mass movement run by its members. We are literally giving power back to the people. Restoring their rights and their self-respect. No more centralised power structure, no more shameful inequality, no more diktats from on high – or from London.’
That one got him his first ripple of applause. Even the Londoners present laughed, if a little nervously.
‘Our Alliance will help you campaign in the areas where you live and work on the issues that matter most to you. By organising with your communities, we can build support for the Alliance across the country, to win the next election and radically transform people’s lives. From now on, nothing’s impossible. Bring your families and your friends to Trafalgar Square tomorrow, and let’s show the mainstream media and the world that together we can do it.’
He felt it and he meant it, as did everyone else in the room, he was sure. To loud cheers, he jumped off the table and found himself surrounded by his new friends and supporters. In turn listening to people’s stories, answering questions as best he could, sharing jokes and laughter, the warmth flowed through him. He had never expected such an outpouring of energy and enthusiasm. He caught Sam’s eye across the room, and guessed what she was thinking. The extraordinary journey had begun. He would not disappoint them.
The demonstration was the moment that Matt had been dreaming of for months, when everything was supposed to come together, and he would test his ideas and his speechifying against reality. He felt serenely confident and shit-scared at the same time.
When Matt and Sam came out of Charing Cross tube station, the top of the Strand was closed to traffic and packed with people walking towards Trafalgar Square. Surprised and impressed by the numbers, Matt stopped next to a newspaper stand, shuffling his thoughts, going through the bullet points of his speech. The last moment of solitary calm before diving into the crowd.
Looking left towards the square, he could see the top of Nelson’s Column. The sky was cloudless and dark blue, with a sharp 9/11 luminosity. His mind scrambled back to that first unthinkable shattering of certainties. The origin of so many subsequent disasters could be traced to those two split seconds, the horrendous moment of impact on the eightieth and seventy-fifth floors, and the flames and carnage and bleak despair that resulted. The jumpers. His sister Sarah.
She had phoned him to say she was scared and the room she was in on the 106th floor was filling up with smoke. Eight minutes later the North Tower collapsed and she was dust. He never spoke of her; she was always with him.
What followed didn’t help to assuage his grief. A nation first distraught, then swearing revenge. Hatred and fake patriotism feeding off each other. Intolerance and persecution let off the leash. Wars without reason, victors or spoils, just misery, maiming and death. The after-shocks hadn’t stopped. From the Twin Towers to Trump Tower. Ignoble. Desecration.
‘Bless you, Sarah,’ he whispered to himself, turning his head away from Sam. ‘Wish me luck.’
Matt shook himself and returned to the more mundane reality of the day that lay ahead. He should keep things in perspective. He was simply about to take a small step that was right for the country.
‘Come on,’ said Sam. ‘Stop dreaming. It wouldn’t look good if we were the last to arrive.’
She took his arm and gently pulled him forward, then let go as he broke into his stride.
In the forecourt outside the station, friends and supporters greeted each other noisily with much backslapping and high-fives, before unfurling their red SOCA banners. The crowd in the street moved slowly forward, to the accompanying rhythm of drumbeats and the blasting of klaxons and one or two vuvuzela horns. Children holding red balloons with the SOCA logo – a heart with an oak-tree in its centre – were carried high on parents’ shoulders. Tourists standing in the doorways of souvenir shops waved and cheered in support.
When they finally reached Trafalgar Square, the supporters already occupied the entire central area south of the National Gallery. Led by half a dozen union stewards in hi-vis jackets, Matt and Sam forced their way through the crowd to the raised platform at the bottom end of the square, where they had arranged to meet Rob. On their way, they saw several pairs of policemen and women strolling around in their helmets and shirtsleeves, chatting to any young children they came across and discreetly making sure their presence was noted. The crowd was good-humoured, enjoying the day out, and occasionally lapsing into ribald jeers and fruity chants telling James Crouch where to go and where he could stuff his bunch of cronies.
‘Your people have done a great job in publicising the event,’ said Matt to Rob. ‘Have you checked the sound?’
‘Everything’s working – we’re ready to go. There’s a lot of interest in your speech. Absolutely no pressure.’
‘Do as we agreed and they’ll love you,’ said Sam, giving him a thumbs-up.
Rob and Sam took up position in the front row of the crowd, while Matt went round the back to the screened-off security area, waiting for his moment. After a few minutes the announcement came over the loudspeakers: ‘Friends, ladies and gentlemen: let’s give a warm welcome to the co-founder of the Save Our Country Alliance – Matt Barker!’
He heard the scattered cheers and took a deep breath. It was too late to worry about it now – either triumph or disaster lay in store, or anti-climactic mediocrity, the fates would decide. Clearing his head, he climbed the steps up to the platform and approached the microphone, to say a few words to the thousands of people that had poured into Trafalgar Square.
At first Matt had to speak over some low-level chatter and shuffling among the crowd, until the noise gradually died down.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he began. ‘This is an important day.’
As the whole square fell silent, he saw the glow of anticipation on people’s faces as they looked up at him. Expectations were high. The only sound now was the rumble of traffic and the squawking of pigeons.
‘We stand here today, in our tens of thousands, with a simple message of change. We say to Mr Crouch and his autocratic nationalist government: the people’s patience has run out. This country can do better. We demand fresh elections and a change of government.’
Encouraged by the first round of mild applause, Matt continued.
‘Those who occupy the seats of power, only a few hundred yards away from here in Downing Street and Whitehall, have betrayed the people’s trust. They had their chance and they’ve brought our country to its knees. The economy is broken, our institutions no longer function, and the England that we were once so proud of has become an object of pity and ridicule around the world. If Mr Crouch has any concern for our country’s future, he should listen to the people’s anger and draw the only possible conclusion: Crouch must resign from office immediately.’
The crowd had been unusually quiet up to now, unsure where Matt was taking them. His last words suddenly lifted the lid and a ear-splitting roar of approval engulfed Trafalgar Square. The chant began in one corner, quickly spreading, louder and louder - ‘Crouch out! Crouch out!’ – over and over again.
Their enthusiasm bowled him over. He had never imagined such strong support, so soon. Emboldened, Matt asked for silence and continued.
‘From today, our Alliance will set up branches across the country, to defeat the nationalists by every peaceful means. This fight against hatred and intolerance is nothing less than our democratic and patriotic duty. We have one single aim and defining purpose - to save our country.’
As further deafening rounds of applause swept round the square, Matt looked over the heads of the crowd and noticed a dozen armoured vehicles drive slowly forward from the top of Northumberland Avenue. At first he scarcely paid attention. They came to a halt on the edge of the square, and out jumped several hundred police in full riot gear. Such a show of force was completely out of proportion. They must be on some kind of training exercise.
‘I ask you to go back to your homes, your families, your friends and your workplace, and tell everyone you meet that the battle for England’s future has begun.’
Surprised not to hear any reaction, Matt paused as he heard the collective gasp from the thousands in front of him. All eyes were focused on the police in their helmets and bulletproof vests. They were moving forward now towards the crowd, first in single file and then gradually fanning out, visors down, shields held up against their chests. Walking alongside them was the incongruous sight of a small group of men wearing balaclavas and carrying two red banners fixed to long wooden poles.
‘Don’t let them get away with this attack on our democracy,’ Matt went on, in disbelief and desperation as he began to understand what was about to unfold. ‘They know their days are nearly over. If we stay united, we’ll be stronger and they’ll be defeated …’
He heard the sound of breaking glass. Turning to his right, he saw that the masked men had ripped off the banners from the poles, and begun smashing the windows of the bank and the bookshop on the corner of the street. Instead of trying to prevent the vandalism, the police drew their batons and waded into the crowd. They began lashing out indiscriminately, beating whoever stood in their way, hitting or even kicking those on the ground as they passed, steadily advancing towards the platform where Matt was standing. To the dull repetitive thud of exploding tear gas grenades, and amid the crowd’s screams of panic and pain, everyone began pushing and jostling to find a way out and away from the mayhem.
He tried calling for calm and yelled at the police to stop the violence, but no one was listening.
‘Get down!’ he heard Sam shout, as three policemen mounted the platform and ran towards him, twirling their batons.
The police dragged him down the steps and into the screened-off area behind the platform, out of public view. As Matt raised his arms to protect his face, he just had time to see they had no markings on their uniforms. Then he heard the crack of the truncheon on his head, raining blows, and his head shattered into a hundred fragments. The blackness engulfed him and he collapsed on to the ground.
PART 2 – THE CAMPAIGN GETS UNDERWAY
CHAPTER TEN
When he came round, he was lying on a hospital bed in St Thomas’s A&E, with a nurse shining a light into his eyes and Sam standing next to her. The pain in his ribs and the pounding in his head were excruciating. With difficulty he tried to follow what Sam was saying.
‘The doctors say you’ll be fine after a few days’ rest. Other people were not so lucky. Over thirty supporters were seriously injured and taken to hospital, two of them are in a critical condition.’
The throbbing became more acute. He cursed himself for his naivety in failing to foresee the violence. He was responsible for those innocent people being beaten up. Someone at the heart of government had tried to strangle his movement at birth. He would start the fightback as soon as he left the hospital.
The nurse gave Matt an injection and he drifted back to sleep.
Back at the flat the next day, nursing his aching skull and two cracked ribs, reading the media coverage did nothing to help Matt’s recovery. As expected, the government press machine had taken full control. The largest-circulation tabloid, the Daily Standard, spoke of “a small minority of far-left agitators spewing bile and hate”, and praised the police for their bravery in putting themselves in harm’s way to protect the law-abiding public. Graphic photos of the bloody scenes were prominently displayed on the front pages of all the nationalist-supporting papers. Light relief was provided by the description of Matt as “a seedy lobbyist turned rabble-rouser in chief”. He would print a copy of the article and frame it.
Matt’s recovery was further endangered by a video on the London TV website showing James Crouch, described as “grim-faced and visibly moved”, as he visited the injured in hospital and comforted their families. He promised that everything would be done to bring the perpetrators to justice. Asked about allegations of police brutality, Crouch announced his decision to set up an independent inquiry to reveal the full facts. He urged the home secretary “to get a grip” on her department.
The shameless hypocrisy of the man. Despite never having met Crouch, Matt detested everything he stood for – privilege and self-interest, corruption and cynicism. After his experience in Trafalgar Square, Matt’s animosity towards the prime minister had become personal. The countdown to Crouch’s exit from Downing Street had begun.
Matt wondered who had given the order to attack. Crouch himself would have been careful not to leave any fingerprints - anyway, such trifling matters were beneath him. The instructions probably came from some middle-ranking nationalist headbanger in the Met’s counter-insurgency unit, acting without formal authority but knowing he had enough political cover. Then they sent in the special branch thugs, making sure the Met officers were kept well away. Who were these shadowy men in unmarked uniforms that had smashed his head with their truncheons and broken his ribs? Were did they come from, who paid them, where would they attack next?
A couple of days later, as Matt was beginning to feel himself again, Rob came round to visit him with a bunch of scraggy tulips. Matt was tempted to throw them back in his face.
‘Is this some kind of joke? I’m not on my last legs you know. Where were you by the way - how come they didn’t beat you up too?’
‘Just kept my head down. At least you got some publicity. Good speech by the way, pity they cut you off just as you got going.’
After putting the flowers in water, in the hope it might resuscitate them, Matt sat down at the kitchen table and gestured to Rob to join him. He opened the window next to the sink to let in some air.
‘That was the first skirmish – next time it may get bloodier,’ said Matt. ‘We’ve got to be better prepared. How can we defend ourselves?’
‘First of all, whether you like it or not, you’re going to need protection all round the clock.’
‘That sounds a bit excessive.’
‘You have to decide. Either we set up a professional organisation, with you as leader, or we’re finished before we’ve even started.’
Matt had no wish to have his whole life turned upside down, but he knew Rob was right.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Rob. ‘Most of the time, you won’t even notice them. We’ll have a small number of armed stewards present at all public meetings. If things get rough, we’ve got enough light weapons and a few twenty-year-old machine guns to arm the trade-union militias – which officially don’t exist, as you know – plus a small volunteer force we can set up.’
Rob seemed to enjoy the prospect of meeting force with force. Armed conflict had not been part of the original project. Matt had another idea.
‘Let’s hope we won’t need any of that,’ said Matt. ‘We can only beat them by being quicker and smarter, and by mobilising enough public support. And we should use our strength among your members. How about organising a few selective strikes as a diversionary tactic? You could start next week with a blockade of the oil refineries. Do you think that would work?’
Matt saw Rob’s eyes light up. Rob had once told him of his involvement, as a young union militant, in the blockade that over eight days in 2000 had nearly brought down the first Bla
ir government. It was a good precedent.
‘If that’s what you want, consider it done,’ Rob replied. ‘You don’t have to wait till next week. We can get the blockades in place at the main refineries – that’s Ellesmere Port, Fawley and Humber – by tomorrow night, and from dawn the following day, nothing will go in or out. In less than a week, we’ll bring the country to a standstill.’
‘That’s agreed then - I’ll let you get on with it. Make it clear that this is exclusively union business, nothing to do with the Alliance,’ said Matt. ‘Don’t hold back. We can’t afford another defeat.’
Shortly after Rob had left, Matt was alone in his kitchen, a glass and a bottle of malt on the table in front of him, when his phone vibrated. The dial showed it was an unknown number. Tired and curious, he pressed Accept.
‘Don’t ring off, Matthew. You should know this conversation may be recorded,’ said an oily voice. ‘I’m sorry to hear you’ve been laid up, I hope you’re feeling better – ’
‘You’ve got a nerve, Penfold. How did you get this number? I’ve got nothing to say to you – ’
‘It was all a terrible mistake, Matthew. Believe me. As you probably noticed, they were Special Forces, not policemen. The officer responsible will be severely reprimanded, and we’ll offer you generous compensation, under certain conditions of course – ’
Matt ended the call and switched off his phone. He downed the rest of his glass and poured himself another one.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘I thought we’d abolished the unions – or at least watered down their rights so much they couldn’t cause any trouble,’ said the prime minister, glowering at Jeremy Burgess, the secretary of state for business and shared prosperity. ‘We haven’t heard a cheep from them for twenty years, and now all of a sudden they’re creating chaos and holding the country to ransom. I’m told they’ve even formed some kind of alliance with our former friend Mr Barker. How do you explain that, Home Secretary? Surely Barker can’t have any real influence?’